Men of Bronze (36 page)

Psammetichus waited patiently as the heavy-set chief of the royal scribes readied his palette and papyrus. When he continued, his voice reverberated about the small chamber. “Regnal year One under the majesty of Horus: Strong of mind, appearing in truth; He of the Two Ladies: Who establishes laws and brings plenty to the Two Lands; Golden Horus: Great of mind and body; the king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands: Ankhkaenre Psammetichus, chosen one of Ra, son of Ra, may he live,” Pharaoh recited the royal titular, pausing for effect as his courtiers held their breaths. Their eagerness for Pharaoh’s next words crackled, palpable. Even Nebmaatra found himself leaning forward in anticipation. “To My generals on the eastern frontier, I say this: You have served Me well, now attend My wishes. I send one to you who shall oversee in My stead. His voice shall be My voice. His will shall be My will. He is Nebmaatra, the Sword of Ra, General of the armies of Egypt, Right Hand to the King. Obey him as you obey Me.”

Nebmaatra was silent, stunned, as the chamber erupted in shouts of approval. General? The flush of pride that should have accompanied the moment was stillborn as he realized its implications.

Psammetichus motioned for silence. “Do you accept this honor, my friend?”

Nebmaatra bowed, an almost perfunctory gesture. “If it is truly your will, I have no choice but to accept.”

Psammetichus looked askance at Nebmaatra. “It is a great honor, is it not?”

Nebmaatra’s mind raced as he tried to assimilate every factor, every nuance of what this promotion meant. “Yes, a great honor,” he replied. He could not have been caught any less off guard if Pharaoh had risen and brained him with an axe. The smiles and congratulatory nods of those about him assumed a sinister aspect; the whispered prayers of victory grew thick with imagined mockery.

“Take what officers and men of the Calasirians as you feel you need and make ready to depart. I will be along as soon as my father’s funerary rites are concluded. Remember, Nebmaatra, it is not enough to defeat the Persians at Pelusium.” He jabbed a finger at the envoy, Gobartes. “We must make them rue the very thought of invading Egypt.”

“I understand, Pharaoh,” Nebmaatra said. “But, in my absence, who will insure your safety?”

Psammetichus smiled, glancing at Ujahorresnet. “I place my safety in the hands of the gods. Their priests will be my spiritual advisers, my counselors, and my bodyguards if need be. Too long have I listened to the advice of men who seek to gain through deception and poor counsel. This is a new

beginning, the dawning of a new era. Go, my friend, and pave the way for victory!”

Nebmaatra bowed, spun, and strode from the audience hall, so deep in thought that he failed to acknowledge the raucous applause following in his wake. He glanced up once, his eye catching the envoy, Gobartes.

The Persian smiled ruthlessly.

The ship was called the
Glory of Amon
, and its quay had become the focal point of a flurry of activity in the predawn gloom. Sailors and longshoremen worked furiously to get her ready to sail, loading supplies as quickly as the porters arrived with them, scampering up and down the lines and guide ropes. Rowers worked the kinks out of their thick shoulders as they adjusted the sheepskins padding their benches. The
Glory of Amon
was a bireme, stripped down, its low lethal prow glazed for speed. At full sail she could cut the green water of the Mediterranean like a knife through fat.

By all rights, Nebmaatra should have been beside himself, elated beyond words. He had reached the pinnacle of his dreams. Why, then, did he feel uneasy? He stood to one side, watching the preparations without seeing them, his arms folded across his chest. Was it the timing of this triumph, or perhaps his ultimate destination? He could not imagine a decisive battle fought at Pelusium, not against a Persian army thick with cavalry and archers. They would be in their element on that flat grassy plain. A better solution would be to lure them into the swamps and sloughs of the Eastern Delta and await the coming inundation, let the Nile purge itself of this Persian infection.

No, strategy wasn’t the source of his concern. He reckoned that, with enough time and enough men, he could make even Pelusium defensible. Nebmaatra stroked his chin. As he understood it, the idea to send him from Sais did not originate with Pharaoh. It came from the mind of the priest, Ujahorresnet. Why? What possible benefit could the priest gain by promoting him? He had heard cryptic rumors that the old man’s behavior at Memphis during the Greek uprising had been something less than beneficial. Yet, since his installation as First Servant of Neith in Sais, Ujahorresnet had been the model of Egyptian piety. Why, then? Did he harbor aspirations after all? Nebmaatra shook his head. “Politics,” he said.

“I heard the news, general,” said a voice at his side. He turned and saw Ladice approaching. She seemed pale, withdrawn. Alone. “I would have thought you would be more … jubilant.”

“Why celebrate what may be just a hollow victory?” he said.

“Hollow?” Ladice smiled, a wan gesture that lacked even a shred of her old fire. “Ahmose told me once he could see in you the ability to inspire men, to lead them to their deaths and make them proud to die. In Egypt’s darkest hour, I can think of no better place for you than in command of Pharaoh’s armies. My …” Ladice’s voice caught in her throat. “My husband would have agreed with his son’s decision.”

Nebmaatra felt a wrench of sadness for Ladice. She was a foreigner, a Greek, adrift on a hostile sea. After the required time of mourning, Psammetichus planned to return her to her family in Cyrene, but even that did nothing to assuage her grief. “Thank you, lady, but Psammetichus is not his father. He has a simplicity about him; he wants to believe the best in all men, and that makes him a liability in this, as you put it, our darkest hour. Whoever may have engineered this is exploiting Pharaoh’s weakness to good effect.”

“Who’s behind this conspiracy, general?” Ladice said. “The nobles? The priests? Does Sais harbor Persian sympathizers?”

Nebmaatra started to reply, then stopped, his eyes narrowing. His mind registered the subtle hint of sarcasm. “You think I’m foolish?”

“Not foolish, just narrow minded. I do not mean that as an insult. Set your paranoia aside and think, Nebmaatra. What will happen if the Fates smile on you and grant you victory at Pelusium? Egypt will be spared from oblivion, and you will have the power and prestige to exact vengeance on those who crossed you. You have the opportunity to transform this ‘hollow victory’ into a triumph for you as well as Egypt.”

Nebmaatra said nothing for a long moment, his mind navigating the labyrinth of politics. When he finally spoke, his voice held a note of new-found respect. “You paint a persuasive picture, lady. Maybe this is a matter of perspective, after all. I thank you for your counsel. Your grasp of intrigue is surely worthy of Ahmose, himself.”

Ladice smiled. “It is hard to be the wife of a Pharaoh and not learn something of politics and intrigue. Truly, though, I sought you out to ask a favor of you.”

“You have only to ask, lady, and perhaps you can do Egypt a favor in return by availing yourself on Psammetichus. He needs your wisdom.”

Ladice bowed her head. “You ask the one thing I cannot grant.”

“Why, lady?”

“Because,” Ladice looked up, tears sparkling in her eyes, “I wished to ask your permission for my maids and I to accompany you to Pelusium.”

Nebmaatra frowned. “But, I leave within the hour. There are many days of funerary preparations yet to complete for your husband. I do not see …?”

“Ahmose has crossed the River, Nebmaatra,” she said. “The rites are an Egyptian formality. I have said my farewells after the fashion of my people. After a dozen years of living among Egyptians, I am not one step closer to understanding your liturgies or beliefs, but I do understand your people. We, my maids and I, desire to provide succor to the wounded at Pelusium as a way of repaying the kindness they have shown us.”

Nebmaatra had a thousand arguments for why she should stay and counsel Pharaoh, but as he looked at the tears wetting her cheeks, he could not bring himself to deny her.

“Now, it’s you who think I’m foolish,” Ladice said.

Nebmaatra placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “No, lady. I understand very well. You should understand, too, that this will be dangerous. Should the battle go against us, I cannot guarantee your safety. If you fall into Persian hands …” He trailed off.

“I only wish for a chance to serve,” she said.

Nebmaatra stared at the lightening sky, at the ruddy glow spreading across the eastern horizon. It was going to be a beautiful morning. He sighed. “To Pelusium, then.”

Her legs wrap around his waist, urging him deeper. Their bodies undulate with a sinuous grace. The sweat of love-making rolls down her breasts and pools in the hollow of her throat. He grunts, his hips thrusting against her buttocks; she moans, purring in feline contentment. The room is dark save for a cone of brilliance illuminating their sweat-slick forms. A figure approaches from the shadows. The light strikes fire from a blade held in his hand. He sees the interloper, but he cannot move. Her legs and arms bind him to her. She laughs, her teeth cruel yellow points that rip his flesh. She laughs, caressing him with hands rotted to bone …

Barca jerked awake, eyes flaring open, hands fending off something only his mind’s eye could see. He bit back a scream before it could escape his throat. Slowly, he sank back down on the bed. The Phoenician shifted his frame and tried to relax, listening to the sounds in the night. Beside him, Jauharah whimpered in her sleep. The tent soughed in the breeze. The flame in the lamp crackled, flickering, its oil almost exhausted. A horse whinnied in the distance, followed by the faint cry of a sentry’s challenge.

You are a fool, Barca!
He should have been angry with himself for what he had done, for breaking a twenty-year old promise to the gods to never let a woman close to him again, yet he had no anger in him. Not at this moment. Only a strange feeling even the after-effects of his nightmare could not taint. He looked down at Jauharah’s sleeping form.

Her body was balled up tight against his side; her hands twitched, and the muscles in her legs quivered. A veil of hair hid her face from view, though Barca heard a faint moan escape her lips. He kissed her gently, stroking her scalp. Jauharah was an exceptional woman: strong yet compassionate, brave yet vulnerable. She could have been a queen had Fate not made her a slave. But then, in Barca’s experience, Fate had a way of punishing the innocent and rewarding the wicked.

Quietly, he rose from the bed and slipped on his kilt. There was no way he could sleep, not with so many concerns running through his mind. How to handle Qainu, how to extract Callisthenes from the Arabian’s grasp, how to defend Gaza from within and without, even how to treat Jauharah. What did he feel for her, and would it interfere with his judgement? He …

“Hasdrabal?” Jauharah said, her voice thick and drowsy. She stretched and rolled toward him. “Is something wrong? Come back to bed.”

“No, everything’s fine. I have never been able to sleep for any length,” Barca said. He picked up his breastplate and set it on the small table, trying to ignore the lush invitation her body made.

“Nightmares?” Jauharah asked. She reached down and snagged her shift off the floor, draping it across her naked breasts and thighs.

Barca shrugged. “Sometimes. You have them too, I noticed.”

Jauharah sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I only have one,” she said. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Meryt and Tuya’s tiny bodies drowning in a lake of blood. They’re screaming my name, begging me to help them, but I can do nothing. I’m afraid, and that fear keeps me rooted to the spot as they slip under the surface …” Tears clung to her lashes, spilling down her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Barca moved back to the bed and sat. His hand stroked her back. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to save them.”

“You can’t save everyone, Hasdrabal,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “You had your hands full that night, as I recall. No, I should have never left them. I try not to imagine what their last minutes were like. Their father lay dead in front of them. Their mother, too. I try not to think about how terrified they were.” She sighed and slipped her shift over her head, running her fingers through her hair. “I failed them, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life.”