Men of Bronze (28 page)

Thothmes turned in time to see the head and body fall in different directions. Spears and swords licked out, driving him back. Blood sheeted from a cut on Thothmes’ scalp, blinding him. He tripped over a corpse. Thothmes rolled over on his stomach and clawed at the gory stones, fingers seeking the hilt of his sword. His will, his spirit, did not falter, but in his mind he knew it was time. He knew …

A hoplite spear, driven through his back, freed his
ka
to travel to the next world.

Through the haze of
katalepsis
Barca did not see the two Egyptians die. His eyes were fixed on the far side of the hypostyle hall. He hacked his way through the last of the Greeks and rushed alone into the inferno.

“Phanes!”

Precious oils and fine linens fed the flames equally as well as common lamp fuel and resin soaked rags, creating only a sweeter smelling miasma to burn the lungs and sear the eyes. The Phoenician emerged from the temple complex in time to see the
Khepri
backing water. With a bellow of rage, Barca flung his shield away and rushed down the avenue of sphinxes to the quay, too late to stop their exodus. Though smoke and exhaustion blurred his vision, he could see Phanes standing in the bow of the retreating barge. The Greek smiled despite his defeat.

“You son of a bitch!” Barca roared. “I will hunt you to the ends of the earth!” The Phoenician swayed, sword falling from his loosening grip. “To the e-ends …” The world spun. Cold, leaden limbs weighed him down. No. Too much left to do. He needed a ship. A ship. Pharaoh would grant him one …

Figures staggered through the smoke, their bodies pierced by spear and sword, wracked with exhaustion. Tjemu sat in the shadow of a sphinx, a rag pressed to his thigh, his curses lost amid the general clamor.

Nearby, ringed by Calasirians, Ahmose leaned against a stone obelisk. Pharaoh’s breath came in wracking gasps and his armor bore witness to the fury of the battle; several scales were missing, others were dented, and a patina of fresh gore dulled the whole. His arms were crisscrossed with cuts and gouges. Disheveled priests prepared bandages and poultices for their king. Ahmose removed the blue war crown and passed it to an aide. Nebmaatra crouched at his feet. The Calasirian commander knotted a scrap of linen around his lacerated forearm.

“So much for Phanes’ loyalty, eh?” Pharaoh said. A shout went up from the surrounding soldiers, cries of “Medjay! Medjay!” as Barca staggered through their ranks. Swords were thrust heavenward; spears clashed on shields. Oblivious to the din, Barca shouldered his way past the Calasirians.

“G-Grant me a ship, sire,” he said. “A s-ship …”

“Hasdrabal Barca!” Ahmose smiled. “We owe you your heart’s desire. If it’s a ship you want, you will have it. But not today. Rest, Hasdrabal. The gods know you have earned it.”

“C-Can’t …” Barca collapsed to his knees, his face pale. Nebmaatra caught his shoulder before he could topple, easing him to the ground. Frowning, he unbuckled Barca’s cuirass and tore away the sodden linen bandages. The slash in his side had widened. Through the weakened sutures, Nebmaatra saw the moist red-blue of viscera.

“Fetch a physician!” Nebmaatra motioned to one of his Calasirians.

“How bad is it?” Ahmose said. “He’s lost much blood.”

The Phoenician stirred. His words, when he spoke, came out slurred. “S-ship … y-you … must …”

“Whatever the physicians’ need will be put at their disposal. I owe this man too much to allow him to die,” Pharaoh said. He reached out, patting Barca’s arm. “You hear me, son? You don’t have my leave to die. Not while Phanes yet lives.” Hasdrabal Barca groaned as the darkness rose up about him.

Time passed. The Nile rose and fell; the Inundation gave way to the Sowing. By the month of Pharmuthi, on the cusp of
Shemu
, the Harvest, news had trickled out of the East and into the great cities of Palestine. Merchants from the desert oasis of Palmyra carried ominous tidings through the Lebanon Mountains and down into the Phoenician littoral. Rumors blazed through the bazaars of Byblos, the streets of Sidon; priests of Ba’al in Tyre sought to divine the truth using the livers of sacred bulls.

Merchants from Jerusalem brought word to the
shaykhs
of Sinai, who traded turquoise and copper for worked metals and weapons. Over fires of dried acacia and camel dung, the Bedouin consulted their oracles, the stars and rocks of their desert land; their oracles spoke of a day of great slaughter just over the horizon. This news spread from Sinai to Egypt, from bedouin to villager, from merchant to soldier, from priest to nobleman. At every turn, the news was met with a terrible sense of foreboding.

The Persians were coming.

An army had set out from Babylon, an army whose ultimate goal was the Nile valley. Envoys of King Cambyses had been sent to the lands along the Persian road to Egypt demanding tokens of earth and water, the age-old symbols of capitulation.

An emissary reached Sais on the first of Pakhons, half a year since the battle at Memphis, and found the city in chaos. Ahmose lay on his deathbed, attended on all sides by grim-faced priests. Shovels of incense were offered on braziers of glowing coals. Through the sweltering days, the temples swarmed with those begging intercession from the gods. Through the cool nights, the music of sistrum and tambourine prepared all of Egypt for Pharaoh’s imminent passing.

The emissary, Gobartes, was not without friends in Sais, friends who had survived the purges that followed the Greek uprising at Memphis. One such was Iufaa, a priest and aristocrat. Gobartes could not remember what god Iufaa served; truly, these Egyptians had more gods than Scythia had horses. Whatever his religious leanings, Iufaa’s political affiliations left little to doubt. He would welcome Persian interference to end the illegitimate reign of Ahmose and his brood. Gobartes gave Iufaa the name of a man he had a pressing need to speak with.

Ujahorresnet.

Since Memphis, the old priest’s fortunes had risen. Tales of his bravery in the face of violence grew, taking on a mythic quality. Oh, there were rumors — bred, no doubt, by jealous rivals. The most persistent had the kind old man acting as an ally of Phanes in the capture of Hasdrabal Barca and the deaths of his Medjay. It was hard for such a rumor to grow and thrive when Barca himself discounted it. Regardless of his detractors, Ujahorresnet found himself in the presence of Pharaoh, who gave him a host of honors, not the least of which was the office of First Servant of Neith in Sais.

Iufaa, ever cautious, arranged a dinner on Ujahorresnet’s behalf. If his guests thought it an extreme display of arrogance that he should invite Gobartes, they wisely said nothing. The evening went well. After being greeted by their host, the guests repaired to the roof to take their meal in the coolness of night. The echo of music rose from the distant palace. Small talk, gossip, idle chatter flowed as they worked their way through a brace of succulent geese, breads, cheeses, wine and beer. Slaves cleared away the last of the platters and crocks, and Iufaa escorted his other guests down into the garden, leaving the Persian envoy alone with the guest of honor. Gobartes wasted no time.

“We have a common interest,” Gobartes said, “and … dare I say it? … a common ally. You see, my good priest, I, too, subscribe to your theory of foreign invasion as a way to reinvigorate a flagging culture. In my own land, the Medes conquered their neighbors to create a stronger people. It could be the same with Egypt.”

Ujahorresnet glanced sidelong at the Persian. “You have me at a disadvantage. I am but a priest, albeit of some importance, not a politician or a courtier. I …”

Gobartes laughed. “Phanes did not lie when he praised your cunning.”

“Phanes!” Ujahorresnet glanced around, expecting to see soldiers pour from the darkness at the merest mention of the Greek’s name. “He is no more my ally than he is yours! Phanes serves no man but Phanes.”

“True,” Gobartes said, “but does he not embody the very theory you expound? He is the epitome of the foreign invader, and his presence, his existence, could serve as a catalyst for the change you have so fervently prayed for. Aid me, and I swear to you that tomorrow’s Egypt will eclipse the glory of your forefathers like the sun eclipses the moon!” He went on, describing what the King intended to do with Egypt once it was part of the empire.

Ujahorresnet found himself drawn into the Persian’s argument. He found himself imagining the glories of yesteryear returning; a flowering of culture and civilization unheard of since the days of Amenhotep the Golden. Temples arose from the squalor of his imagination, cities of the living and the dead, fields of boundless plenty. “Your master,” he began, his voice quivering, “will he rule as Pharaoh? Will he honor the gods of Egypt over the gods of his own people?”

“Yes!” Gobartes said. “The gods, the titular, the ceremony, he will adhere to every custom of Egypt, but he will require guidance. A mentor. Someone familiar with the old ways. He will require your aid, Ujahorresnet.”

The priest turned away, his head bowed in thought, his hands wrung together in an unconscious display of nerves. His last foray into intrigue and deception had nearly killed him.

“I assume you desire something in return?”

“Only a trifling thing, I assure you,” Gobartes said. “As First Servant of the Goddess, you advise Pharaoh on spiritual matters?”

Ujahorresnet nodded, frowning.

“Can make yourself indispensable to him?”

Ujahorresnet turned away, staring at the distant palace. The music reached a shuddering crescendo …

Ladice heard that mournful music as she knelt by Pharaoh’s side, keeping him quiet and still as disease ravaged his body. She watched his every movement with a passionate intensity, seeing to his every comfort. On nights when sleep was denied him, Ladice would sing of the gods and heroes of Hellas, her voice a balm. This night, though, Ahmose could not be placated. The dying Pharaoh thrashed and moaned.