Men of Bronze (47 page)

“I hope so,” the Egyptian muttered. “I hope so.” His heart suddenly heavy, Nebmaatra turned and walked to Pharaoh’s tent.

Pharaoh sat on his golden throne and listened to the rain. He had dismissed his courtiers, his advisers, even Ujahorresnet, in order to compose his thoughts in relative peace. The golden scales of his armor clashed as he shifted; of gold, too, were his arm braces, decorated in raised reliefs depicting the gods of war. Instead of the crook and the flail, the hereditary tokens of rule, his hands caressed the haft of an axe.

It was an elegant weapon. The slightly curving handle terminated in a flared bronze head, and the whole was overlaid with gold. The scene on the blade depicted Pharaoh smiting a captive with the label “Beloved of Neith” beneath. A gift from his father.

Father.

Ahmose had been a lifelong soldier, a man born to the art of war. Psammetichus wondered where such a man’s thoughts dwelt in that hour before battle. Did Ahmose second guess his strategy? Did he spend time praying to the gods for luck and success in battle? Or did he just sit quietly and think of the wives he left behind, the children?

He conjured an image from memory. An image of his father as a younger man. He imagined him sitting in this same tent, alone, an axe in his hands. What would Pharaoh do? Where would Pharaoh turn? The answer would not come. Psammetichus could only remember his father as a man, laughing, swapping jests with his generals, drinking wine.

Perhaps that was the answer.

Nebmaatra and Ujahorresnet appeared at the door of the tent. The general carried the blue war crown. They bowed to Pharaoh.

“It’s time, O Son of Ra,” Nebmaatra said.

“Wait.” Ujahorresnet held a small pottery figure in his hands, decorated as a Persian with the name of Cambyses inscribed on it. He placed it at Pharaoh’s feet. Psammetichus raised an eyebrow. Quickly, Ujahorresnet explained, “In the time of the god-kings, magic was wrought this way. The ancient ones would smash the effigies of their enemies to insure their power over them would not wane.”

“I should do no less than the god-kings, eh, my friends?” Pharaoh rose and, after a moment’s pause, brought his heel down on the Persian effigy. “I wish it were as easy as this.” Pharaoh accepted the crown from Nebmaatra, and together they rushed out to take their positions.

The priest lagged behind to gather up the shards. Inside the Persian figurine was a smaller effigy, also of pottery, faceless and undecorated. A pair of
shenu
, name rings, was inscribed on the broken figure.

Ankhkaenre Psammetichus.

Barca moved among the mercenaries, not with the pomp of a general, but as a man, stopping along the way to share a joke, to give a greeting. He laughed, and the mercenaries laughed with him. Barca was a man they could follow. Not born of noble blood, not a man who would command from the rear ranks, but a soldier like themselves. A man who would fight, bleed, and even die with them. Nubian, Libyan, Greek, Medjay. As disparate as they were, divided by culture and language, they were bound by the same awe, the same fascination, the same love for their Phoenician general.

Barca carried himself with the supreme self-assurance of a man comfortable with war. Whatever roiled in his soul did not project to his exterior. The face he presented to his soldiers was the face of a man who wore the heavy bronze cuirass as a second skin; the sword he carried was an extension of his hand, and the shield on his arm virtually weightless. He would face the enemy alone, if need be.

But there would be little need for that. Slowly, as if the sound would dispel the glorious apparition of their general, a chant rose from the ranks of the Medjay.

“Bar-ca! Bar-ca!”

It carried from man to man, from throat to throat. Four thousand. Eight thousand. Twelve thousand and growing.

“Bar-ca! Bar-ca!”

The Nubians in the front ranks bounced on the balls of their feet, chanting in their tongue, a frenzied dance of war meant to secure victory. Their muscular backs gleamed with moisture. Libyans and Greeks pumped their spears heavenward or clashed them against their shield rims. Nowhere else along the Egyptian line was this sort of display going on. The native troops heard the clamor and marveled. Had the mercenaries gone mad?

“BAR-CA! BAR-CA!”

And amidst this furious storm, Hasdrabal Barca stood alone. His face was solemn as he drew his sword and saluted his men. “Brothers!” he cried as the chant reached its crescendo and began to ebb. “Brothers! It’s no hard thing for men like you or I to risk our lives in battle. It’s our lifeblood, our calling. But, these Egyptians, these men who have come here to defend their homes, their wives, their children … these men are the true heroes. Today, foreigner and native will stand shoulder to shoulder, and for a time, we will all share the same cause. The cause of Victory!”

“Victory!” The cry rippled through the mercenaries. Hearing it, the Egyptian regiments took up the word. “Victory!” The cacophony grew, until finally the combined voices of sixty-five thousand men shook the foundations of heaven.

“Take your marks! For Egypt and Victory!”

The clamor redoubled as the soldiers found their marshaling salients with the ease of men accustomed to battle.

A figure threaded toward Barca from the direction of the Egyptian camp. At first, the Phoenician thought it might be a messenger sent to deliver some last minute change of plans. As he slogged closer, Barca recognized the face under the helmet.

“Callisthenes?”

The Greek smiled, adjusting the breastplate he had procured. A shield hung from his arm; an uncrested Corinthian helmet perched precariously on his forehead. “I could not, in good conscience, sit this one out. After Memphis and Gaza, why act squeamish now? As a boy, I dreamed of fighting in a great battle, of making my mark on the papyrus of history. Now,” he thumped his bronze-sheathed chest, “I have my wish.”

Barca smiled and gripped the Greek’s forearm. “Take your place, then.”

Callisthenes turned and made to join his kinsmen from Naucratis, then stopped. He looked at Barca. “If I fall,” he said, “give Jauharah a message for me. Tell her I said thank you. I found comfort in her words.”

Barca nodded. “You can tell her yourself, after we’re finished here.”

Callisthenes waved and vanished in the throng of soldiers.

Barca searched his soul, feeling for that well spring of anger that had sustained him in battle for the last twenty years, and found nothing. The Beast was dead. A chill danced down Barca’s spine. Fine. He would fight this battle without the benefit of a red rage. His mind focused on one thing: on seeing Jauharah’s face at the end of the day. Whatever he had to do to make that a reality, he would. All hesitation fled from him, replaced by an iron resolve that stiffened with each passing moment.

The Phoenician walked to the crest of the hill and stared away east. Below, beyond the angled palisades, the pennons of the mercenaries hung motionless in the damp air. Through a gray haze of rain, he could barely discern the front ranks of the Persians. He heard the dull rumble of thunder, then realized it was the sound of an army on the move. Soldiers were crossing the interval. They would fight. To his left, he could see the hill tumbling down to the sandy strand; to his right, the colorful banners of the regiment of Ptah.

Barca took up his position at the center of the left wing. The Medjay flowed around him, a guard of honor, presenting a front two hundred shields across and five deep. Left of the Medjay, and anchoring the flank, were the men of Naucratis, five hundred shields across and ten deep, commanded by the Olympian, Oeolycos. Between the Medjay and the Egyptian regiment of Ptah were the Libyans, led by Prince Hardjedef, arrayed in the same formation as the Greeks. The soldiers of Cyrene were held in reserve, despite the protests of their commander, Andriscus. Dark-skinned Nubians ranged ahead, each man bearing a spear, a knotty club, and a shield of thick elephant hide. Otherwise, they were naked. Even their chief, Shabako.

Through the rain, a skirmish line of Persian infantry advanced at a crawl. Thousands of men in loose formation, ten deep, clambered over obstacles and slogged through mud. The moisture had ruined any chance for an arrow storm, but Cambyses was not without options. Those men marching through the gray haze were lightly armored javelineers. Barca had expected as much.

They drew up some three-hundred paces from the Egyptian lines. An order bawled in a sibilant tongue produced a flurry of activity. Each soldier had three ash and iron shafts — one cocked behind his right ear, the other two held ready in his left fist. At a cry from their commander, the soldiers raced forward, propelling their javelins high with every ounce of strength they could muster.

“Shields!” Barca roared. His trumpeter blared the order, echoed by Nebmaatra’s on the extreme right. All along the Egyptian line shields sprang into the air, angled to deflect incoming missiles. “Brace yourselves! Here it comes!” Arching out of the gray sky came a fusillade of iron-heads — a deluge thicker than anything Barca had ever seen. There was a beauty in it, a symmetry of flight as the individual darts reached their apex then gracefully descended, pulled earthward by the weight of their razored tips. Barca watched until the last minute, fascinated.

As impressive as this volley was in flight, its impact was more so. The sound deafened; the hiss of an ash shaft followed by the hammering of iron on shield wrenched prayers from more than one man’s lips. Bolts smacked the thick hide bucklers of the Egyptians like the clap of metal on flesh, amplified to the extreme. Javelins caromed off the bronze of the Greek allies, or splintered on their bowl-shaped
aspides
.

One soldier, a man of Naucratis, risked a glance over the edge of his shield and died as a javelin punched through the eye socket of his Corinthian helmet. Others screamed as iron warheads ripped into every inch of exposed flesh: neck, shoulder, thigh, foot. A Nubian made the mistake of dropping his buckler to clutch at his riven calf. A heartbeat later his body flopped to the earth, pincushioned. Casualties, while not significant, mounted.

A second volley followed. A third. Darts protruded from the earth like stalks of grain. A few daring souls snatched them up and hurled them back down the slope.

Barca felt javelins glance off his shield, skitter off his breastplate. Impacts slowed to a trickle, then ceased. He glanced around the rim of his shield. The javelineers were pulling back, beating it through the muck in an effort to escape any retaliatory strike the Egyptians might mount. Barca felt anticipation flowing from his men; they looked at him, their eyes begging permission to give chase. No. That would be playing into Cambyses’s hands.

“Cinch up your balls, brothers!” Barca thundered. “Those were love-taps compared to what’s next! Move the wounded to the rear! Check your interval!”

“He’s there, on their left,” Phanes said.

“How can you tell?” Darius squinted, shading his eyes from the rain with a gloved hand. Despite his age, the young Persian carried himself with all the cool and aplomb of a seasoned campaigner.