Men of Bronze (44 page)

“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.”

Jauharah sat beside him. “You want to know a secret, Callisthenes? Something only women understand? A man is not measured by the lives he has taken, rather by the lives he has preserved. Your actions at Memphis, Gaza, and Raphia speak louder than any words. You are, barring none, one of the bravest men I have ever known — and it’s precisely because of your concern for life. You have to do what
you
think is right, Callisthenes, not what others believe is right for you. If fighting is not for you, then you can still help us here, in the House of Life.”

“With the women!” the Greek said bitterly.

“There are men here, too. Men equally as brave as the soldiers in the field,” Jauharah said. “Some men are put on this earth to preserve life; others to take it. You are one of the rare few whose sense of compassion overrides your desire to kill. Yours is a rare heart, Callisthenes. Trust it. It will not lead you astray.”

Callisthenes looked at her, a newfound respect in his eyes. “It’s little wonder Barca has changed. For a time I dismissed you as nothing more than his way of atoning for the past. I can see I was mistaken.” He grasped her hand. Jauharah could feel him shaking. He looked down, cleared his throat. “My people do not hold women in high regard, save as a way to propagate the future. We do not accord them the independence they deserve. I swear to you, Jauharah, should I live through this, I will devote my remaining days to righting this wrong.”

Jauharah smiled. “I know you will, Callisthenes. I know you will. For now, though, let’s deal with today. Would you like to aid us here?”

Callisthenes sat for a long time, perfectly still, his eyes closed as he searched the deepest recesses of his heart. Finally, he stood. He helped Jauharah to her feet. “Lady,” the Greek said. “I am honored by your invitation, but my heart tells me my place is with the men of Naucratis.”

Barca caught Nebmaatra coming out of his tent, a roll of papyrus tucked under one arm. The Egyptian’s face creased in a mirthless smile. “News travels swiftly,” he said. “I’ve sent word to each regimental commander. I want campaign discipline maintained. If the men go off to empty their bowels, they had best keep their weapons handy.”

Barca nodded. “It would be wise to send patrols around the marshes, just in case they think to flank us from that direction.”

“We’ll see to that after we brief Pharaoh. Come.” The Phoenician fell in beside Nebmaatra.

Barca had not seen Psammetichus since the latter’s arrival a few days past. As Tjemu would say, Pharaoh knew the value of a good entrance; he made his with all the pomp and glitter of a conquering king. Preceded by the gods of Egypt and a swarm of shaven-headed priests, Psammetichus reviewed the troops from the back of his chariot. In his golden-scaled corselet and blue war crown, the young monarch looked every inch his father’s son. But looks could deceive.

“Have you talked with Pharaoh?”

“Once,” Nebmaatra replied. “When he informed me of his desire to command the center, behind his Calasirians and the regiment of Amon.”

“You explained to him that he must stand firm, that Cambyses will doubtless hurl the Immortals against the center in an effort to split the line?”

Nebmaatra nodded. “He assured me he would hold the line together.”

“You trust him?” Barca knew the young Pharaoh had never commanded as much as a raiding party, much less the core of a professional army. The Phoenician had seen his share of recruits freeze when the sounds and smells hit them for the first time. He expected no less from Psammetichus.

Nebmaatra glanced sidelong at the Phoenician. “He is Pharaoh. What choice do I have? I must admit, though, it warmed my heart to see him go against Ujahorresnet’s advice.”

Barca’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Mother of whores!” He had seen the old man in the entourage and assumed he was there in his capacity as lady Neith’s high priest.
“He’s
Pharaoh’s new advisor?”

Nebmaatra nodded. “Not just advisor. Pharaoh named him Overseer of the High Sea Fleet, Fan-bearer on the King’s Right Hand, a whole host of titles. Apparently, they have quite a rapport. I suggested Pharaoh award you the Gold of Valor for your deeds at Gaza, but Ujahorresnet convinced him not to. He said it would not look proper to bestow Egypt’s highest military honor for a mere skirmish.”

“I should have killed that meddlesome bastard in Memphis!” Barca said, his teeth grinding in anger. “Do not trust him, Nebmaatra! If an order springs from his lips, question it, if not openly then in your own mind. He does not have Egypt’s best interests at heart.”

Nebmaatra’s brow furrowed. “How do you know? Thus far, he has …”

“I know!” Barca snarled, and would say no more.

A subaltern of the Calasirians ushered them into Pharaoh’s presence. He occupied a temporary throne room, an understatement in simplicity walled in pure white linen that diffused the morning sunlight. The golden throne itself rested on a dais of ebony wood inlaid with scenes of Pharaoh smiting his enemies. Beside the throne, Khasekhem, Overseer of Scribes, sat cross-legged on the ground, his palette and pens prepared. Ujahorresnet, resplendent in his robes of office, stood at Pharaoh’s right hand. Barca stared at the old man with undisguised contempt.

“I have heard the Persians have been sighted moving into position. When do you expect an attack?” Psammetichus said.

“Not before midmorning tomorrow, at the earliest.”

“Are we prepared, Nebmaatra? Tell me I have not misplaced my trust in you?”

Nebmaatra unrolled his papyrus, revealing a hastily sketched map. He spread it on the dais at Pharaoh’s feet. “The regiment of Amon and the Calasirians will hold the center, along this height. To their left will be the regiments of Ptah and Sekhmet, to their right, Osiris and Bast. Barca will command the left flank from the seaward hill. The mercenary units will form on him: the Medjay, the Greek regiment, the Libyans and the Nubians. I will command the right. With me will be the regiments of Khonsu, Anubis, Horus, and Neith. That’s twenty-five thousand men massed in the center flanked by roughly twenty thousand apiece. Sixty-five thousand men against eighty thousand. We are as prepared as we can be, Pharaoh.”

“Outnumbered as we are, do we stand even the slightest chance?” Pharaoh asked, despair thick in his voice. He looked from Nebmaatra to Barca. The Phoenician could barely recognize him as the laughing young lion of Sais. His once vigorous face seemed dissipated; the skin stretched too tight over the bone. Dark circles ringed his eyes.

Barca nodded, glancing down at the map. “We have the advantage of position and, by the will of the gods, weather. If our courage holds, victory will be well within our grasp.”

“Still,” Ujahorresnet spoke up for the first time, “would it not be wise to prepare a contingency plan for retreat should we be overwhelmed?”

“You speak what is in my mind, good Ujahorresnet. What about it? How will we fall back should the occasion arise?”

Nebmaatra cleared his throat. “I have not given it much thought, Majesty.”

Barca’s anger exploded. “Let the first blows fall before you plan our surrender! Merciful Ba’al! Why not order us to fall on our swords and get it over with?”

Psammetichus’ eyes flashed dangerously. “Guard your tongue, Phoenician! You may have spoken freely around my father, but I am not Ahmose!”

“Retreat is not an option!” Barca hissed through clenched teeth. “Do either of you have the slightest idea what it is we fight for here? Well, by the gods, I’ll tell you! Egypt’s survival! This is the boundary stone, the line the Persians must not cross! No contingency plans! No retreats! If we dwell on those, we give our courage an option to fail, and that we cannot do! If we —
we!
— do not stop Cambyses here … “ Barca trailed off.

“I understand,” Pharaoh said, his frame deflating, his anger leeched away by the grim realization of Barca’s words. “I swore to my father on his deathbed that I would not fail Egypt, and I swear it to you now. If I desert Egypt in her hour of need, may I be stricken dead and my body left unburied and unmourned.” Psammetichus dismissed them with a wave. “Go, both of you. Go and see to my army.”

Barca and Nebmaatra bowed and retraced their steps. Outside, in the golden sunlight, Barca shook his head. “He’s right. He’s not his father.”

“He may be untried, but Psammetichus has heart, and heart has won many a battle on its own,” Nebmaatra said. “See to your men.” The Egyptian turned and headed for his command tents, where already the regimental leaders had mustered.

Barca was unconvinced. Oath or no oath, once the fighting got thick and the blood spattered Pharaoh like rain; his lack of experience would show. The Phoenician would feel better if Psammetichus bowed out of the fray and watched it from the safety of camp. At least there if his courage flagged, it would not infect the men like a plague.

A scribe’s apprentice, a boy of perhaps twelve, rushed up to the Phoenician and handed him a square of papyrus. Barca eyed the boy as he ran off again, then opened the note. It was written in Jauharah’s firm hand:

I must see you. Come when you can.

Below that were directions leading south and west of the Egyptian camp. Barca frowned.