Men of Bronze (45 page)

The spot the Persians chose for their encampment lay three-quarters of a mile from the base of the Egyptian hillocks. Priestly Magi made the proper sacrifices and libations; reconnaissance units scouted between the marshes and the sea; servants and slaves set about erecting the royal pavilion along the banks of a creek, in the shade of a palm grove. The son of Cyrus did not travel as another man would, with the bare essentials only. All the luxuries of court accompanied him, from the ladies of the
apadana
to the children of his noble families to an entourage of eunuchs, governesses, cooks, bakers, weavers, orderlies … an army to service an army, and all of it centered upon the person of the King.

As morning faded to midday, individual marshaling salients were staked out and an order of battle decided. Soon after, a summons came from the King’s pavilion, and his generals rushed to heed his call.

A forest of carved cedar poles turned the interior of the King’s pavilion into a fragrant orchard. Around the ivory and gilded wood campaign throne, a legion of slaves and servants waited on the King, seeing to his every whim as if it were the will of blessed Ahuramazda. Indeed, perhaps it was. At the very least, Cambyses of Persia considered himself a demigod. His father had rejected the idea. “In Egypt, the King may be divine, but in Persia, we are but tools of the divine,” Cyrus was wont to say. Cambyses scoffed at that. He was the pinnacle of justice, the fountainhead of law, with the power of life and death over every living thing under his rule. Could a mere mortal make such a claim?

Heavy-lidded eyes gave the King an indolent look that matched his appetite for pleasures — both of the flesh and of the cup. His rugged frame and falcate nose may have marked him as the son of Cyrus, but there all similarity ceased. To live in the shadow of a man who had conquered much of the world had bred in Cambyses a certain depravity: if he could not match Cyrus on the field, he would match him at the banquet board and in the bed chamber.

Cambyses dismissed his servants with the slightest of gestures as his inner circle of generals and councillors filed in. Among these, Prexaspes held sway. He was a cunning old Mede with the face of a fox and eyes colder than a viper’s. The Magus Ariarathes followed, wrapped in the self-righteous fervor of a follower of the one true god, Ahuramazda. Darius came next, moving with the self-assurance of a man who wore the truth like armor. Phanes entered behind Darius, the Greek’s manner at once beautiful and deadly, like the play of lightning in a summer storm. Last came Gobartes, the envoy, his face as unreadable as a wax mask.

After displaying the appropriate level of veneration to the throne, couches were brought in and wine served, a cool aromatic vintage from the King’s own stores. Despite their relaxed postures, tension clouded the air. His Majesty was in a dark mood, and men had been known to vanish during his bouts of melancholy.

“Well?” the King said.

Prexaspes spoke, his voice low and controlled. “Based on the reconnaissance, we face nine regiments of Egyptian troops and four of mercenaries. Under seventy thousand men. They have fortified the hillocks directly in front of us, and the field is strewn with all manner of debris. We cannot use cavalry, but neither can they make use of their chariot corps. If our esteemed Gobartes is correct, they are led by Nebmaatra, an able leader, but unimaginative.”

“What Nebmaatra may lack, Barca makes up for a thousand times over,” Phanes said, staring into the depths of his wine.

“Forgive me if I do not share your admiration for this Phoenician,” Prexaspes said, his lips twisted into a sneer. “He is one man amid thousands. He will reign supreme in his little corner of the field, but beyond that …” The Mede made a negligent wave.

Before Phanes could voice the angry retort that formed on his lips, Darius stepped in. “You are wise, Prexaspes, and like a father to me, but I am forced to agree with the Greek in this matter. I have talked with this Phoenician. His courage is infectious. It will spread from man to man until it engulfs the whole of their army, and in the grip of this glorious fever, they will fight with redoubled effort. He is beyond doubt Pharaoh’s finest asset.”

Cambyses shifted on his throne. “And what of Psammetichus?”

All eyes swiveled to look at Gobartes. The envoy swallowed. “He is not cut from the same cloth as his father. Psammetichus is a weak ruler, Majesty. Easily swayed by the advice of his nobles.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “Men say the same of me,” he said, his voice deadly calm. “They say that perhaps my brother, Bardiya, would make a more suitable king. Do you believe that, Gobartes?”

Sweat popped out on the envoy’s forehead. He walked a razor-thin line. One misstep, one wrong inflection and his life would be forfeit. “You are the soul of Persia, Majesty. You are her fire, her conscience, her righteousness. With respect, I ask you: can the body live without the soul?”

Cambyses said nothing, his eyes riveted on the trembling envoy. Gobartes averted his gaze out of deference and fear. Finally, the King said, “You speak what is in my own mind, Gobartes, and you say it with a honeyed tongue.” Gobartes breathed a sigh of relief. Cambyses continued, “Ariarathes, what do my brother gods say?”

The Magus bowed. “I have studied the heart of the Sacred Flame and heard the blessed voice of Ahuramazda. No matter what befalls, the enemy must be engaged at dawn. The omens will not be as auspicious for many weeks to come.”

Cambyses nodded, a thin smile warping his features. “It is my wish to behold the wonders of Memphis. So I charge you, my generals, with the task of humbling this rabble of artisans and stone masons. Prexaspes will command the left wing; Darius the right. I personally will oversee the center. My Immortals will form the core, with the Median and Babylonian infantry. The remainder, you may divide amongst yourselves.”

Darius and Prexaspes bowed in acknowledgment.

“What of me, Majesty?” Phanes said. He had hoped for a command; indeed, Cambyses had promised him one at the outset.

“What of you …” Cambyses said, stroking his chin. “You, I charge with another task. You will command the Ionian and Carian mercenaries, and it will be your responsibility to hunt down and neutralize the Phoenician, whether he is on the left, right, or in the center. Find him and kill him. That is your reward for serving me.”

A malign light glowed in Phanes’ eyes as his lips peeled back in a bestial snarl. The Greek nodded.

“Remember,” the King said, sweeping them with a withering glance. “When we succeed, Egypt’s riches will be yours to share. But, if you fail, if my wishes are not met or exceeded by dusk tomorrow, then not even the icy chill of the Zagros Mountains will cool my wrath!”

It was late afternoon by the time Barca was able to pry himself away from the preparations for the coming battle. He had briefed his sub-commanders, the leaders of the mercenary units, on how they were to deploy; he saw to the construction of an angled hedge of wooden stakes at the base of the three hills, a loose palisade that would slow a Persian charge up those inclines. Finally, he gave orders for sentries to be posted and rotated every three hours, and went off in search of Jauharah.

The message from her had been cryptic, its brevity worrisome. The Phoenician wondered what she had discovered. What could require this level of secrecy? Fearing for her safety, Barca picked up his pace and headed for the southwestern edge of camp. During the past three weeks, he had seen very little of Jauharah. Her duties in the House of Life had taken the bulk of her time, as preparing the field had taken his. Those few moments they had spent together left him sullen, aching.

“You love her,” Tjemu pointed out one evening as they shared a meal. His tone was blunt, no-nonsense. Barca knew instantly that discussing Jauharah had been a mistake.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Phoenician had replied. “I said I admired her for her strength. That’s a far cry from professing my love.” His response, though, lacked conviction, and Tjemu saw through it as easily as he saw the changes in his old captain. Ithobaal would have been proud. The Libyan tore a chunk of bread off the loaf and dipped it into the stew pot.

“What’s so ridiculous about it?” he said, popping the bread into his mouth. “She’s a fine girl. Reminds me of the woman I left behind at Siwa. She was strong, too. Strong and stubborn.” Tjemu chuckled. “She could do this thing with her hips …”

“Never mind,” Barca growled. “Forget I said anything.”

Barca threaded his way through the camp in silence, barely acknowledging the greetings and cheers he received from soldier and servant, alike. Stories of his many battles were spreading throughout the Egyptian army, no doubt started by his Medjay, becoming more grandiose with each telling. Before long, he will have fought the Greeks at Memphis single-handedly before ascending into the heavens on the great solar barque of Ra to do battle with the serpent Apophis. The Phoenician hated such tales. They made the commonplace mythic and did a disservice to those who fought and died at his side. They deserved the accolades, not him.

His mind returned to Jauharah. Was it love he felt for her? He tried to recall how he had felt for Neferu, so many years ago. Usually a wave of anger preceded such thoughts. Not anymore. Barca remembered her with a detached clarity. Neferu had been a gorgeous young woman, her body firm and lush, her face that of a goddess carved in stone. She had known, too, the effect her body had on men. They flocked around her, desperate to capture her attention. She encouraged their behavior by wearing gauzy linens and jewelry designed to accentuate her flaring hips and shapely legs. Beyond the physical, Barca could not remember one thing about her personality that he might have found endearing. She was shrill, opinionated, spoiled. A girl masquerading as a woman. He had loved Neferu as a miser loves his gold, an object to be coveted and shuttered away.

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 self-possession 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.”