Men of Bronze (42 page)

Jauharah pushed her hair out of her eyes and peered over the railing of the
Atum
. Over the crash of breakers she could hear Callisthenes ordering the soldiers carrying the wounded to make haste. Behind her, Senmut’s men scampered over the rigging, preparing the sail to be unfurled once the oars carried them into the bay. The captain shouted vulgarities at those sailors who moved too slow in their tasks. It had been a chaotic hour, but the pieces of the plan were starting to fit together. Callisthenes and the soldiers carried the wounded up a makeshift gangplank while she, with her orderlies, got them situated and saw to their comfort. They had made better time than she thought. Once Barca arrived, all that remained would be for the soldiers to force the ship off the strand, strike the oars, and make for open sea. It sounded simple enough.

“How many more?” she yelled down to Callisthenes.

The Greek glanced around, mentally counting men as a merchant tallies wine jars. “A dozen, perhaps,” he said. “But they are those with the worst wounds, the unconscious. They are expendable, if need be.” Callisthenes frowned as something caught his eye. Jauharah followed his gaze. From the hills ringing Raphia a dust cloud rose into the blue sky.

“Persians.” The word rattled through the Egyptians like an icy breath. Stolid and courageous as they were, every man among the raiding force harbored a deep-seated fear of dying in this barbarous land, unburied, cut off from their families, their
ka
forced to wander aimlessly through eternity. It was a thought that loosed the bowels of the strongest among them. Its implications flogged them like an overseer’s whip, driving new life and purpose into their limbs. As Jauharah watched, they redoubled their efforts.

“Callisthenes!” She ran to the gangplank. “What did you mean by expendable? None of the men can be left behind!”

Callisthenes ignored her.

Men clogged her path, the wounded and their handlers. Frustrated, her anxiety rising by the second, Jauharah snagged a rope tied to the rail and slithered down the side of the ship. Once her feet touched the sand, she was off and running up the beach toward the village.

The Greek spotted her. “Jauharah! Damn you, woman!” He nodded to a trio of men. “Don’t just stand there! Follow her and bring her back! “ The Egyptians followed in her wake.

Raphia was deserted. Eerie. She could faintly hear the rattle of stones, the jingle of harness, the voices raised in command as the Persians moved unseen through the hills above them. The air was pregnant with tension. As sure as a woman heavy with child would give birth, Jauharah knew something would happen here to shatter the tomb-like stillness. Something violent and bloody.

Quickly, she set about getting the rest of the wounded. The last hut, larger than the rest, contained those soldiers no longer able to move, those with head and spinal injuries. These were patients that were beyond her skill. The papyri Jauharah had studied while in Memphis had been noticeably silent about such trauma, prescribing treatments that mixed magic, prayer, and luck. All she had been able to do was keep them comfortable.

The Egyptians following her stopped, fear and exertion making them short of breath. “Lady! Please! The Greek wants us back at the ship!”

“You go! I have to get these men to safety!”

“We can’t leave you here, lady!”

“Then help me!”

The Egyptians looked at one another. “How?”

“We need litters!” she said to her newfound helpers. They nodded and looked around for something suitable. One of them stopped, a burly Egyptian with a strawberry birthmark on his shaven head. Jauharah followed his gaze.

“Barca!” she said. The Phoenician pelted down the goat trail, heedless of the loose rock and scree.

“All of you! Get to the ship!” he roared.

“We need more time!” Jauharah said. “There are a dozen or more left in there!”

Barca’s breath came in gasps, his chest racking like a forge’s bellows. “The Persians are coming! We have no more time to spare! Grab those men you can help. The rest —” he trailed off, touching the hilt of his sword.

Jauharah caught the gesture. “No,” she said, her voice cracking. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. “There has to be another way.”

“Go!” Barca hissed through clenched teeth. “Get to the ship!” He turned and made to enter the hut.

“Wait! “ Jauharah sobbed, clutching at his arm. He caught her hand in his. Barca knew well the look in her eye, the helpless despair tinged with failure.

“They cannot be left behind,” he said softly. “Not alive, at any rate. The Persians could use them to undermine morale at Pelusium. Go. Please. Get to the ship. I’ll be along.” A sick feeling crept over him as he pushed into the hut.

Sunlight trickled in through a hole in the ceiling, giving the faces of the wounded a grayish pallor. The air was cool, thick with the reek of sweat and the stench of men unable to control their own bodies. Of the fourteen wounded, only two were conscious, and they just barely. One, a grizzled old sergeant, winced as he sat up. His name was Intef; an unlucky arrow had threaded through the rocks of his hiding place several days past, catching him in the lower spine.

“Time to strike camp, sir?” he said. “Thank the gods … “ he stopped mid-sentence, noticing the grim look on Barca’s face, how his hand never strayed far from his sword hilt. The old soldier glanced down at his useless legs and nodded. “I understand, sir.”

“What is it, Intef?” asked the other conscious soldier, his eyes wrapped and his crushed legs splinted. “Are we going home?”

“Lay back, boy,” Intef said. “When next we open our eyes, we’ll behold the beauty of the gardens of Amenti.” The young man knew what was coming. He, like Intef, was a soldier to the core. Neither of them begged or pleaded for their lives.

Barca’s sword whispered from its sheath. He knelt beside the closest soldier — a boy of eighteen years, blood oozing from beneath the linen strips bandaging his skull. Though he did not know his name, Barca had watched this lad take a blow intended for another man, then kill the bastard who struck him before falling himself. His face was hollow, lifeless; though his chest rose and fell, Barca knew his
ka
had already departed for the West. Barca glanced up and stared into Intef’s hard eyes.

“Quick and clean, sir,” the sergeant said. “He won’t feel a thing.”

The longer he looked at this boy, this soldier, the more his hands shook. He was already dead, Barca told himself. All of them would likely die on the way to Pelusium if they did not die here in the next few moments. Why prolong their suffering? He adjusted his grip on his sword, the hilt growing slick with sweat.
What’s wrong with me? They’re soldiers; soldiers die
.

“Do it, sir!” Intef hissed. “Do it quick and get clear!”

Soldiers die, he repeated to himself, seeking solace in that mantra. Soldiers die. Soldiers die. Soldiers die …

“Mother of bitches!” Barca roared, rising. “Not today, Intef! You’re not going to die today!” He sheathed his sword and scooped the lad up, whirling. Outside, a pair of Egyptians had cobbled together a makeshift litter as Jauharah bound a wounded man’s broken legs together with lengths of rawhide. All of them stopped, staring. “Get some help and get these men to the ship! Damn it! We’ll not leave them behind!” He passed the unconscious lad to one of the soldiers, then glared at the looming dust cloud.

“What are you going to do?” Jauharah leapt up and ran to his side, the relief and pride in her voice tempered with fear for his safety.

Barca snarled. “Buy us more time!”

“He’s planning some deviltry. I can smell it,” Phanes said. The Greek stood alongside Darius, a step behind and to the right out of deference, as they surveyed Raphia from the safety of the ridge line. The beach swarmed with activity as sailors and soldiers made the
Atum
ready to sail. “You should have killed him while you had the chance. Now, you’ll have no choice but to fight him.”

Darius made a subtle spitting gesture, not deigning to look at the Greek. “I am no dog. When I offer the flag of truce, I offer it genuinely and without guile.”

Phanes chuckled. “War is a game of guile, lord Darius. Sleight of hand and deception are weapons as useful as swords and spears. I am not criticizing you,” the Greek said, heading off Darius’ angered reply, “but the goal of any commander is to slay as many of the enemy as he can, by whatever means, while preserving as many lives among his own men as possible. Killing Barca when you had him would have saved many Persian lives.”

“You speak from experience, I understand.” Darius glanced sidelong at the Greek. “You could have slain him in Memphis, yet you balked. Why?”

“Arrogance,” Phanes said, his eyes narrowing to slits. Though a year had passed, his failures at Memphis yet festered like a septic wound. “Cursed arrogance. The gods often build a man up only to tear him down again. They find perverse pleasure in the suffering of the gifted. Perhaps that is why His Majesty paired us together, lord Darius. So you might learn something of arrogance.”

“Or so you might learn something of humility.” Darius walked back to where a groom held the reins of his horse, a magnificent black Nesaean stallion caparisoned in purple and gold. The young Persian sprang lightly into the saddle. “I have learned much from you, Phanes, but learn this from me: if you acquit yourself with honor, it matters not if the battle goes against you. A man in possession of his honor will always triumph, even in defeat.” Darius motioned to his aides. “I have given Barca an hour, and more. Sound the advance.”

Phanes turned back to face the village as Darius clattered off to join his troops. Honor? Faugh! Honor, no matter how keen, would not stop a sword blade or a spear thrust. Was a dead man in possession of his honor any less dead? “What are you planning, Phoenician?” he whispered. “What are you planning?”

Trumpets blared through the hills, ringing off cliffs and echoing through valleys. Barca’s mind raced. How do you stop five thousand determined horsemen? By stopping their horses. How, then? The only answer that came to mind was fire. He needed to set the upper reaches of Raphia ablaze.

The Phoenician snatched up the brazier Jauharah had used to heat her cauterizing irons and hurried to the edge of the village. The huts along the goat trail were older than most of the others, their stone foundations reinforced with old ship’s timbers — timbers soaked with pitch and encaustic. Barca fanned the coals to life. Working swiftly, he set several of the huts afire.

Sun-dried wood blazed like torches; clouds of black smoke roiled across Raphia, a choking veil that effectively hid him from view. Fire alone, though, would not stop the Persians for long. He needed to snarl their advance. Barca cursed himself for not thinking ahead and ordering his men to rig rockslides along the goat trail. A wall of stone would have slowed them. His eyes lit on a bow one of his soldiers had cast aside, a near empty quiver beside it. He needed a wall …

Above the village, horsemen pounded down the goat trail, heedless of the incline, of the loose stone. They were Hyrkanians, half-wild tribesmen from the shores of the Caspian Sea, reckless and mad with the anticipation of slaughter. They had taken a drubbing since Gaza; they were eager to settle the score. Thanks to the narrow approach, no more than a few could enter the village at a time. The rest, though, could dismount and take up positions along the ridge line where they could ply their bows with deadly effect.

Smoke drifted across the Hyrkanians’ path, sending ripples of fear through their horses. One among them sprang from the balking pack. The horse, a fine chestnut mare, floated over the gravel and scree, guided by the gentle pressure of his rider’s knees. Hugging the animal’s neck, the Hyrkanian plunged into the drifting veil. For an instant the world was black, acrid, a void without light or air, and then he was through.

A single enemy waited on the other side.

Barca sighted down the arrow, his target perfectly aligned. He felt a pang of regret as he loosed. The arrow flew straight and true, slashing through the chest of the mare. The horse reared and buckled, pitching its rider to the ground. Barca heard the snap of bone as the Hyrkanian struck face first and did not move. A second horseman exploded from the smoke; a third. Barca drew and loosed as quickly as he could, his arrows creating a thrashing wall of horseflesh. His last shaft spent, Barca tossed his bow aside and sprinted for the beach. He prayed Jauharah had gotten everyone on board.