Men of Bronze (31 page)

Wood scraped wood as the ship sidled close to the dock. Ropes were passed from sailor to longshoreman, and a gangplank levered into place. Quayside taverns and stalls emptied at the spectacle of the
Atum
docking. A festival atmosphere gripped the crowd, replete with street hawkers and food vendors, their voices mingling with the cacophony of tongues rising from the bystanders. Barca gazed out over a sea of turbaned heads and curious brown faces. His eyes locked on a small, self-important man standing apart from the crowd, surrounded by a cadre of soldiers in spired bronze helmets and studded jerkins. The welcoming party.

“Soldiers to the fore,” Barca ordered. Squads of spear-bearing Egyptians in golden-scaled corselets and plumed helmets hustled down the gangplank and took up defensive positions around the
Atum
. Barca followed them down, pausing at the base of the plank. The onlookers pointed, chattering amongst themselves.

The small man pushed past the soldiers and inclined his head in greeting. “I am Merodach, chancellor to his Highness, King Qainu of Arabia, overlord of Kedar and protector of the peoples of Edom. Who commands here?” He looked past Barca, expecting to see a high-born Egyptian materialize at the head of the gangplank.

Merodach moved in a manner that reminded Barca of the sandpipers he had seen on the beaches of Pelusium — small, brown birds forever flitting between waves, fearful of the water but knowing their next meal would come from the silvery surf. Merodach’s features added to the avian caricature: he was small and dark, his wiry muscle hidden by a smooth layer of fat; he had no chin or forehead to speak of, only a long, hooked nose, like a bird’s beak, and small darting eyes the color of wet mud. He kept his head shaved, and above his left eye he displayed the faded bull tattoo of a former Babylonian slave. Barca ignored him, addressing an old soldier who stood at the head of the Arabian troops.

“We require an encampment, a defensible position, preferably to the south of Maiumas and of close proximity to the Way of Horus,” said Barca. “All native troops of the garrison will be placed at our disposal.”

“Nothing shall be done,” Merodach fixed the Phoenician with a cool, unyielding stare, the look of a man confident in his position, “until I speak with your commander.”

Barca matched the smaller man’s stare with one that would curdle milk. “Who are you?”

“Fool! Are you deaf? I am Merodach, chancellor to his Highness, King —”

“Fool, is it?” Barca towered over the chancellor. “Deaf? I am neither. I am Hasdrabal Barca, overseer of the Eastern Frontier, general in the armies of the Lord of the Two Lands, servant of the Great King, the Beloved of Amun, Khnemibre Ahmose, Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt. As of now this garrison and all its troops and resources are under my command!”

Merodach bowed low, partly out of deference and partly to hide his discomfiture. “I beg your forgiveness, General. I did not expect Pharaoh to send a … a mercenary to handle affairs of state. I trust your voyage was without incident? Good. My master bid me bring you into his presence with all due haste. He is eager to meet you and hear the tidings you bring from the Lord of the Two Lands. We’ve brought a palanquin for your comfort.”

“Who commands the garrison troops?” Barca snapped. Merodach blinked, caught off guard.

The grizzled old soldier Barca addressed earlier stepped forward. “I do.” His face was like leather, his short beard the color of snow. “I am Ahmad.” Amusement twinkled in his eyes.

Merodach tried to interpose himself between the two. “General, my Master awaits you …”

Barca swept him aside. “How many men do you have?”

“Two hundred,” Ahmad replied. Barca found nothing remiss in the man’s lack of honorifics. Ahmad was a professional soldier, no different from the men Barca had led as captain of the Medjay, with well-mended armor and weapons worn from use. “Divide them into four squads. Two squads will remain on station in Gaza on rotating shifts. The other two will serve as forward scouts and guides. Pick those who know the terrain best as scouts.”

Ahmad nodded. “They all know the terrain, but I understand what you want.”

“I must insist!” Merodach howled, unused to being so patently ignored. “King Qainu demands …”

“Callisthenes!” Barca jabbed a thumb at the diminutive Babylonian.

The Greek threaded through the ranks of Egyptian soldiery, a scribe bearing papyrus scrolls in his wake. Callisthenes wore the regalia of an envoy. Crisp white kilt; wide belt of gold-scaled leather; a pectoral of gold, carnelian, and lapis lazuli; a short black wig held in place by a golden band. This display of wealth and splendor had the desired effect on the flustered chancellor. Merodach bowed and scraped as if Pharaoh himself had arrived.

“At last! I am pleased there is at least one among you of noble blood and breeding who will not run roughshod over the protocols of state.”

The Greek smiled warmly at Merodach. “Greetings, Merodach. I am Callisthenes, aide to General Barca. While I am not overburdened by blood or breeding I assure you I am capable of serving as a liaison between my general and your noble king.”

“It would be wise to remind your General that if Egypt wishes dealings with Gaza, then the servants of Egypt must bow to the desires of their host.” Merodach glanced at Barca.

“Does not Gaza crave Egypt’s friendship? Egypt’s patronage?”

“Egypt’s friendship?” Merodach said. “You speak like it’s a precious commodity. Gaza, and by extension Arabia, has survived many long years without Egyptian patronage, but how long will Egypt survive without Arabian? Your dilemma is not unknown to us.”

Callisthenes’ smile was genuine. “Ah, my friend, perhaps this is not the place for such discussions. I think both our causes would be better served if we continue this in your lord’s presence.”

After a moment’s thought Merodach grinned, gesturing to the palanquin. “You are right, of course. Let us repair to more palatable surroundings.”

“I avail myself of your lord’s graciousness,” Callisthenes said, boarding the proffered palanquin and making room for the Babylonian. Barca watched as six massive eunuch slaves hefted the sedan chair onto their shoulders and moved off in unison. Curtly, Barca detailed a squad of Egyptians to accompany them. The Greek’s scribe scurried after the cortege. Barca turned back to Ahmad.

“I’ll never understand their kind,” the Arabian said, shaking his head.

“Their kind?”

“Bureaucrats.” The word sounded like a curse.

Barca grinned. “Some men are gifted with the skills of a healer, others with the craft of a killer. But those two are a rare breed. They can spin cloth-of-gold from camel dung.”

Ahmad cackled and ordered his men to disperse the crowd. Observing the old soldier in action gave Barca a degree of insight into his personality. Ahmad was not the bark and bluster type. He issued his orders in an even voice, forceful, like a father leading a company of his sons. In return, the Arabs respected their captain. They shared that sense of brotherhood, that bond, which only men who have stood together in battle could understand.

Barca glanced back at the
Atum
. Longshoremen, sailors, and soldiers worked in unison to unload the bales of equipment and jars of supplies. Scribes ticked each parcel off their manifests, then gave completed manifests to the quartermaster, Bay, a priest of Thoth and possibly the most meticulous man the Phoenician had ever met. Barca’s eyes were drawn to the stern of the ship.

Jauharah stood at the rail, her hair flowing around her, her body in sharp silhouette against the golden sky. Barca felt her eyes on him. A fresh wave of emotion swelled in his breast. There was something unsaid between them, words and deeds yet to be consummated. Was there anything more? Barca frowned and motioned for Ahmad.

“Send scouts out tonight. I want news of the Persians.”

Evening sunlight slanted through windows high in the western wall of the palace at Gaza. Motes of dust swirled and eddied through the air, their drifting disturbed by the approach of a man. Columns lined the way to the throne, casting alternating bands of light and shadow over the newcomer. A white cloak billowed out behind him like diaphanous wings.

King Qainu of Gaza knew the approach of the cloaked figure would not be a cause for joy. When word had come of a solitary rider entering Gaza from the north, Qainu had an idea of who it was. He ordered his courtiers and nobles away. Whatever message the newcomer bore would be for the ears of the king, alone. Qainu sat on a dais, on a throne of ivory-inlaid ebony wood, feeding gobbets of raw meat to a tiger crouched at his side, a gift from a king of distant Sind. The Arabian was a repellent man, fat and soft from years of debauchery. His long hair and beard were plaited and, in accordance with his gods, dyed blue-black. Qainu wore no crown but rather a five-thonged leather skullcap held in place by bands of gold and silver, indicative of the vast wealth of the incense trade.

Qainu had never been a man of war. He gained his throne in the time-honored traditions of treachery and guile. Poison in the cup and a knife in the back, those were methods he understood. Not armies. Not conquest. Those were the instruments of an Assyrian, of an Egyptian, of a Persian. Organized violence was the playground of the man who stalked toward him.

“You play a dangerous game, friend,” Qainu said as the man drew near. “Your enemies are at my gate, and yet you stroll into my palace as if it were the agora at Athens. The Egyptians would pay well for your head, or so I’ve heard. Perhaps I should present it to them as a symbol of my loyalty?”

Phanes of Halicarnassus laughed, offering the Arabian king nothing in the way of homage. “Don’t try to bluff me, Qainu. We both know you don’t have the balls to take my head. Were I in your place, I would worry more about what my Egyptian masters will think when they see me ensconced not as a governor, but as a tyrant.” The Greek indicated the throne room.

Phanes presented the perfect blend of insouciance and arrogance tempered with the wariness of a stalking lion. He had changed little since the Fates frowned on him at Memphis. Leaner perhaps, his muscles sharpened by deprivation; a vengeful light in his eyes gave him the aspect of a homicidal Adonis. Beneath his cloak the Greek wore a bronze cuirass inlaid with figures of silver and obsidian, Charon leading a slain Achilles across the river Styx.

The tiger at Qainu’s side stretched, growling, its yellow eyes fixed on the Greek, a predator sensing its own. Perturbed, Qainu said, “Why have you come? Is Cambyses displeased with my preparations? Have I not met the letter of our agreement? I have camel trains of water stationed along the desert route with trustworthy men from the tribes guarding them. What more …?”

“No, you’ve done well, Qainu. Cambyses appreciates your cooperation. The vanguard approaches. As we speak, Lord Darius is exacting tokens of submission from the cities of Phoenicia. I’m here because I heard a troop of Egyptians left Pelusium bound for Gaza. I came to observe.”

Qainu’s throne creaked as he shifted his weight. The king scowled. “You are welcome in my court whenever it suits you, my friend, but you could not have chosen a worse time. Your very presence is enough to wreck my plans. The Egyptians have not forgotten Phanes of Halicarnassus.”

“I will be the soul of discretion, Qainu.”

The king leaned forward, his fingers gripping the arm rests of the throne so tightly his whitened knuckles cracked. “Please, return to Lord Darius! As a show of good faith, I’ll not send you away empty handed.”

Phanes waved him off. “Keep your gold. I have no need for it.”

“I would not insult you by offering something of little interest to you. Where other men crave wealth, you crave information. Something has come to me that is of paramount importance to our Persian masters!”

“So important that you did not at once relay it to Cambyses?” Phanes said, his manner one of open skepticism. “Tell me, and I will decide as to its worth.”

“The Son of Ra has rejoined his Father,” Qainu said.

Phanes blinked. “You lie!”

“A messenger arrived two days ago from Sais instructing me to relay the information to the Egyptian commander, along with the blessings of Ankhkaenre Psammetichus.”

“Amasis is dead, and Psammetichus wears the crown?” Phanes said, his voice like the low hiss of a serpent. His teeth ground in silent anger as he paced back and forth, cursing under his breath. Soon, the spasm passed. “How long were you planning to keep this close to your heart? Did you not think what it might mean to Cambyses’ strategy? Without an experienced leader, Egypt’s armies will flounder. Psammetichus may have sprung from his father’s loins, but he is no Amasis. The native generals will tear him apart. Zeus Savior, you fool! You’ll be fortunate to escape the King’s wrath!”

“So, you will take this back to Lord Darius.” Though the thought of Cambyses’ anger chilled him, Qainu had more pressing concerns at the moment. He was wedged between the two greatest powers of his generation — not a safe place to be for someone harboring ambitions of his own. For his plans to achieve fruition, he had to present the façade of a loyal subject. For
that
to happen, he needed Phanes as far from Gaza as possible.