Men of Bronze (34 page)

Jauharah found her chest under the table. Beside it sat Barca’s battered leather rucksack. His was an unremarkable piece of baggage, worn and scarred from countless campaigns. Jauharah had seen similar rucksacks decorated in the time-honored tradition of the foot soldier: amulets and charms and reminders of various postings tacked to the leather. Barca’s had only one, a yellowed ivory
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Her chest was an admirable companion to the Phoenician’s kit. She had salvaged it from a nobleman’s refuse heap and tried to restore it to its former glory. Crafted of aged cedar, polished from years of handling, and stripped of its gold leaf and precious stones, the side panels of the chest depicted scenes of home and family, along with hieroglyphic prayers to Isis and Hathor. It served a twofold purpose as both coffer and shrine.

Jauharah raised the lid and looked at her meager possessions: a blue-glazed pot holding smaller stone tubes of eye paint and fragrant oils, a sewing kit, a leather pouch of frankincense, a mirror of polished copper, combs and cosmetic tools of wood and bone, items of clothing. She removed a fresh linen shift, dyed blue, a tube of fragrant oil, and an old length of cloth suitable to wash with.

She stripped off her soiled shift and used water from the ewer to give herself a brisk sponge bath, then rubbed the oil into her skin. She took the last bit of water and rinsed the grit and stiffness from her hair. Times like these, Jauharah wished she had adopted the Egyptian custom of shaving her scalp and wearing a heavy wig. She preferred natural tresses to those woven from fiber, but a bare scalp would be so much easier to clean.

Jauharah dressed and put away her things. She settled into the corner nearest the bed and would have fallen right off to sleep had the tent flap not rustled open. Barca stepped inside. He held a pottery flask of wine, still stoppered and sealed. Jauharah noticed a tightness about his jaw, a smoldering fire in his eyes. His brow furrowed when he saw her.

“You did not wish to have your own quarters?”

Jauharah shrugged. “They assumed we would be … that I’m …”

“Merciful Ba’al! Do they think this is some kind of leisurely outing?” Barca said. “That I would bring a woman along for pleasure?”

His voice held such a vehemence that Jauharah was taken aback. His tone stung. She stood, her back straight and stiff. “Do not be troubled, Hasdrabal. I can sleep in the ruin, if need be.”

Jauharah made to leave, but Barca caught her before she could go. The Phoenician sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Stay, if it pleases you. The gods know I could use the company.”

“What’s wrong?”

Barca tore aside the linen panels and sat on the edge of the bed. He pried his greaves off and tossed them in the corner, followed by his cuirass. He drew a small knife from his belt and pared away the seal on the flask. With his teeth, he removed the stopper, then drank deeply.

Jauharah frowned. “Hasdrabal? Has something happened?” She crouched at his feet.

“A messenger arrived from Sais bearing ill news. Ahmad did not know exactly what, but I think I know. I think Pharaoh has gone on to the realm of Osiris.”

Jauharah’s hand flew to her mouth. “What? Great Isis! No! That cannot be!”

Barca tapped the wine flask against the bed frame. “I can’t think of any other reason why Sais would risk sending messengers to the frontier. Our placement here has nothing to do with their strategic plans, so they would not change our orders via messenger. Pharaoh has been ill for quite some time. There is no other explanation.”

“Then,” Jauharah scowled, “where is the messenger? Why didn’t he await your arrival? Say he had pressing business elsewhere. Why, then, didn’t Qainu’s man deliver the message to you himself?”

“Because,” Barca said, a dangerous light in his eye, “Qainu’s loyalty is suspect. Something else I had from Ahmad … his king does not fear the Persians. That means he is either a fool or he has already paid homage to Cambyses. From what I know of Qainu, he is no fool.”

“Do you think Callisthenes is in danger?” Jauharah asked, voicing Barca’s own concern.

The Phoenician thought about it for some time. He took another pull from his wine bottle. “No. That wretched chancellor had orders to escort me into his king’s presence. They did not expect I would send a deputy. So, harming Callisthenes would do them no good. Qainu will try something else, that or he’ll present the illusion of loyalty and stall until the Persians arrive. Either way, I’ve doubled the sentries.” Barca’s fists clenched and unclenched. “I’m not accustomed to standing idle. It’s not my nature.”

Jauharah sat beside him, taking his hands in hers. Barca shifted nervously. He glanced at her, then looked away.

“You seemed upset earlier this evening,” he said.

Jauharah lowered her head, her hair spilling over her face. “It … saddens me to talk of my family. I’m one of those rare souls to whom happiness is denied. To be abandoned by one family and lose another to violence … what else could the gods do to me?”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Barca said. “True, the Fates have made sure your path is strewn with obstacles, but the gods themselves have gifted you with the wits and the wherewithal to overcome anything. You told me the events of my youth made me who I am today. The same can be said of you. And, despite the pain and the hardship you’ve had to endure, I am glad you’re the woman you are.”

Jauharah nodded. Tears sparkled on her cheeks. She laughed, nervous, wiping her eyes. “Look at me. An hour ago I was ordering men about like a general on the field. I suppose I should thank you for that, too. Whatever you told them about me must have struck a nerve. Even the captain, Senmut, did as I asked.”

Barca smiled. “So, you’re the spirit of Ma’at who appeared and turned chaos to order. I heard about you. But, I had nothing to do with it. Truth be told, it slipped my mind. Whatever respect you earned was from your own actions, not from fear of me. You showed them confidence.”

“Confidence. I must have learned it from you,” she said. Jauharah opened his hands, staring at the thick sword callouses, the frieze of thin scars etching his flesh. Beneath that veneer she saw the hands of an artist. Long fingers, nimble and quick, driven from the gods’ original purpose by chance. She traced each finger, each line, seeing in her mind’s eye this selfsame hand wrapped around a sword hilt, drenched in blood. “Do you … enjoy killing?”

“No,” Barca sighed. He tried to clench his fist but her hands kept it open. “No. It’s a skill, like any other. Some people build great monuments or fashion exquisite jewelry. My skill is at killing. I’m not proud of it, but it is something that must be done. And I’m good at it.”

“You told me earlier that I had an opportunity you would never have. What if you were in my place? What would you do?”

“I don’t follow,” Barca said.

“If you could remake your life …”

Barca took another sip of wine, then set the bottle aside. “When I was a boy, in Tyre, I would go down to the quays and sit on my father’s ships. Just sit there, listening. Sailors are a garrulous bunch. Always a ready tale to spin for appreciative ears. Some days, this old man would hobble on board and every man there would fall silent. Even my father would step aside out of deference. I thought him some kind of merchant king or a priest. Later, I learned the truth.

“He was a navigator. As a boy, he had sailed with Hanno around the tip of Africa. He knew the position of every star in the heavens, every shoal, every reef. What this man had forgotten about sailing most men would never know. If I could go back and make my life over, I would take a ship and sail through the Pillars of Herakles, just like that old man.”

Jauharah smiled. She said nothing for a moment, then, “I wish I could give you your dream.”

“Don’t squander your gift on me. Make a dream of your own come true,” Barca replied. Gently, he touched her cheek; caressed the line of her jaw. His fingers felt unaccustomed to such delicate gestures. She saw trepidation in his eyes. Apprehension. Even fear, if such an emotion were possible from him. She saw something else in his eyes, too. Something he had kept locked away for years uncounted, imprisoned in a cage of ice. His eyes glittered with passion. Hot, bright, intimate, a fire stoked from embers never wholly smothered.

Jauharah turned her head slightly, kissing his scarred knuckles. His hands trembled. Could these be the same hands that had dealt such death? “You’re shaking,” she whispered.

Barca made to pull away, his eyes clouding as he realized what he was doing. “I shouldn’t …”

She laced her arms around the Phoenician’s neck and pulled him closer, covering his lips with her own. Barca returned her kiss awkwardly, almost chaste. His body vibrated, tremors coursing down his spine, his legs. His arms quaked. His body fought a war against itself. Primal desire against iron discipline. He disengaged Jauharah’s arms. “I cannot.”

She hugged herself; her cheeks crimsoned. “I’m sorry. I … I assumed you had the same feelings for me.”

“That’s not it.” He looked away.

“Is it my age? The fact I was a slave?”

“No!” Barca said sharply. “No. It’s nothing like that. You’re one of the few women I have admired. You’re strong. Strong enough to hold your own against any man. It’s … I … I don’t want to hurt you should something go wrong.”

The image of a young wife and her Greek lover flashed in Jauharah’s mind. He was terrified the past would happen all over again. Slowly, she cupped his face in her hands, feeling the muscles of his jaw twitch. Jauharah smiled as she spoke. “You’re not the same man you were then, Hasdrabal. If you were, I wouldn’t be here. You trusted me once. I trust you now. I trust you …”

Jauharah’s words, her touch, melted the hardness in his dark eyes; she felt his body relax. Their lips met again, this time sharing an exquisite, languid kiss that remained unbroken as they sank down on the bed.

For some time, the only sounds that escaped their throats were the sighs and moans of passion unleashed.

Sais sweltered under a sickle moon.

Nebmaatra tossed in his bed, exhausted yet unable to find comfort in the arms of sleep. Outside, heat radiated from the stone of the palace walls. Inside, humidity made the darkness unbearable. Forges and foundries added their din to the sultry night as smiths worked in shifts to turn out the paraphernalia of war: whole forests of spears; arrows enough to blacken the sky; swords, helmets, and corselets of burnished bronze; shields of thick hippopotamus hide. More weapons than Nebmaatra had seen in his lifetime, enough to outfit a vast host, and all of it bound for the eastern Delta, for Pelusium.

Nebmaatra sat upright in bed, sleep an impossibility. He rose and padded over to a small table, pouring a basin of water from a bronze ewer. Gently, he laved his face, scalp, and neck. A dull ache spread from his eyes and threaded down to the muscles of his shoulders. Nebmaatra felt a subtle charge in the air, akin to that moment of calm before lightning struck. Since Pharaoh’s passing, chaos ruled the streets of Sais. The city’s famed linen weavers abandoned their looms; the stone-cutters and artisans cast aside their half-realized statues. Men’s thoughts should have turned to the defense of their land, to preserving their culture from barbaric invaders. Instead, neighbor accused neighbor of harboring Persian sympathies. Mobs hunted phantom spies through the marketplaces and questioned loyalties at spear-point. Even the gods voiced their displeasure, through portent and prophecy. At Shedet, in the Faiyum, the priests of Sobek found the sacred crocodile dead in a lotus pool. At Thebes, rain fell on the temple of Amon. At Yeb, near the first cataract, ram-headed statues of Khnum cried tears of blood. Fear burrowed into the dike of Egypt and weakened an already decaying bulwark.

A timid knock at Nebmaatra’s door presaged its opening. He turned as a young soldier crept across the threshold then stopped, startled to see his commander awake. He stammered his apologies.

“What is it, boy?”

“It … It’s Pharaoh, lord,” the young Calasirian said, shaking, his scaled cuirass clashing like a dancer’s cymbals. “He’s vanished from his rooms again.”

Nebmaatra swore, an expansive, all-encompassing wrath that gave sacrilege new meaning. The young soldier paled as gods were invoked and blasphemies spoken, things best not said by the dark of night. Pharaoh’s rooms lay at the heart of the palace, relentlessly guarded by his Calasirians and attended by an army of servants. Psammetichus, like his father, preferred to sleep alone, visited on occasion by wives and concubines who always departed after they took their pleasure. This night, he had given orders not to be disturbed. Now Nebmaatra knew why. “Rouse the Guard,” he ordered. “Fetch my armor. He can’t have been gone too long.”

The palace came alive as the Calasirian Guard turned out in full panoply. Slaves and nobles peered out, wondering at the sudden commotion. Torches flared. Nebmaatra’s voice roared orders, detailing squads to search every nook and cranny of the palace and its grounds. “Detain anyone who seems suspicious. Find Gobartes and keep him under guard until ordered otherwise.” Scribes, servants, and soldiers scattered like frightened birds before the commander’s fury.