Men of Bronze (50 page)

The sound of a voice bellowing her name jarred Jauharah back to reality.

“Jauharah! Is there a Jauharah here? Jauharah!” A huge Libyan in blood-splashed armor, his sandy hair matted to his scalp, stood at the rear of the tent. He curled his hands into a makeshift horn and howled her name like a barbaric warcry. “Jauharah!”

She rushed over. “What is it? Are you injured?”

“You’re Jauharah?”

“I am. What …?”

The mercenary jabbed a thumb behind him. He plunged out the rear flap of the House of Life, trusting her to follow. She did. Outside, the copse of sycamores and tamarisks shielded the wounded from the gentle rain. Around them sandaled feet had churned the sun-browned grass to mud, and the stench of an abattoir rose from the open trench.

Beneath the trees, a second mercenary crouched beside a shattered body. “General Barca said to seek you out.”

A lance of fear impaled her. “Is Barca … ?” She glanced down at the wounded man and felt her heart wrench in her chest. “Oh gods! No! Callisthenes!”

The Greek’s head moved feebly. At the sound of his name his eyes fluttered. Jauharah knelt at Callisthenes’ side and took his blood-grimed hand in hers, clutching it to her breast. Breath rattled in his chest. Jauharah didn’t need to look too closely to see there was nothing she could do for him.

“I-I did the best I c-could,” he whispered. “B-Barca … the right … the right wing crumbled after … after the Immortals routed P-Pharaoh … only the l-left held, and only because of him!”

“You did well, Callisthenes,” she sobbed. “Ajax himself could not have fought better.” She leaned down, kissed his brow, and very quietly Callisthenes of Naucratis died.

Jauharah placed the Greek’s lifeless hand at his side and rocked back on her heels. The world around her bulged at the seams, threatening to come apart. The battle was lost. She had heard Ladice say as much. There would be panic and flight, but Jauharah felt neither. Only the twin aches of weariness and despair. The dream she’d had last night felt as though it belonged to someone else. Her stream lay beside her, a gash bubbling with blood and piss, and the spearmen who called Barca away were minions of Death. He was alone out there …

Jauharah’s head snapped up, her features hardening. Weariness and despair sloughed from her like a rain-soaked cloak. “Get me a horse!” she said with such force that neither mercenary questioned her order.

She wouldn’t let him die alone.

The rain slackened. Rills ofwater sluiced downthe Phoenician’s armor, through the blood spackling his face and chest. His hair hung in lank strands about his shoulders. Wordlessly, he slung his shield aside and snatched a second sword from a dead man’s hand. Below him, Greek mercenaries swarmed up the incline. Charge after charge had churned the ground underfoot to the consistency of sludge, a mixture of soil, rain, blood, and bowel that seeped into every crack and crevice and made their footing treacherous.

Enemy hoplites crawled over a carpet of corpses, their hands and feet clawing for purchase and sending an avalanche of sundered flesh down upon their comrades. Winded, the Greeks gained the summit.

And died.

The Phoenician launched himself at those who crested the hill. His swords licked and darted, drawing blood with each stroke. Bodies tumbled back down the slope, some slashed and riven, others without arms and heads. Barca felt a presence at his side. From the corner of his eye he spotted an Egyptian soldier coming toward him. Then a second. A third. They were the last of the regiment of Ptah, the rear guard, and they took up positions on either side of the Phoenician. A soldier of the Medjay, mortally wounded, lurched up and hurled himself down onto the Greek spears. Into that breach Barca leapt. His two swords wrought havoc. He was too close for their spears to do any harm. Their smaller blades were useless against him. Barca moved like Ares in his element, and killed with the impunity of a god.

The end was inevitable. There was no way this handful could stem the Persian tide; the sheer press of numbers gnawed away at the defenders, killing them singly and in pairs. Finally, beneath the crest of the hill, Barca stood alone.

Blood streamed from dozens of lacerations, mixing with spatters of grime and gore. One sword had broken off near the hilt. Barca tossed the useless weapon down and faced the horde of Greeks and Persians with a single, unwavering blade. None of them moved. They stood rooted to the spot, frozen like the victims of Medusa’s stony glance.

A familiar face floated over the shoulders of the men in the front ranks. Dark hair. Flawless features. A homicidal Adonis. With a low, merciless laugh, Phanes of Halicarnassus stepped out to face Barca.

“Let’s finish this,” he said, tossing his shield to one side.

“You should have killed me in Memphis,” Barca snarled, “when you had the chance!” They circled one another slowly, a predatory dance bereft of music, accompanied by the soft squelch of mud underfoot. Droplets of rain plopped into pools of diluted blood.

Phanes grinned, his face ghoulish. A wild sword cut had removed his helmet and laid open his cheek to the bone. “And deny myself a chance at glory? I think not! The Fates engineered this, Barca! They need us to meet over the ruins of two nations! Do you not feel it? In the air? That thrill of a god’s fingers moving us about like game pieces on a board?”

“You’re insane!”

Phanes laughed. “Or a genius. The line between the two is as thin as Persephone’s veil. In a minute, you’ll not care either way!”

Their dance came to an end. Both men crouched in the gentle rain, blades ready, condensation trickling down to soak the leather-wrapped hilts. The crowd formed a circle around them, a mixed audience of Persians, Greeks, and Cissians. Barca’s eyes flickered over their ranks for an instant.

In that instant Phanes struck.

The ferocity of the Greek’s assault wrenched a gasp from the onlookers. He moved like a whirlwind, a tempest of flashing iron that rasped and slithered off Barca’s lightning defense. At any moment the witnesses expected to see a Phoenician corpse flop into the muck, headless, disemboweled. Had it been any other man, the fight would have lasted a heartbeat.

For Hasdrabal Barca, the fight had only begun.

Metal grated as the two men surged together, chest to chest, their blades tangled. Phanes spat in Barca’s eye; the Phoenician answered with a fist across the Greek’s lacerated cheek. Phanes howled.

They sprang apart. Barca loathed giving up his momentary advantage. He pressed forward, raining blow after blow on the Greek’s guard. Barca was the taller and heavier of the two, and the thick muscle of his sword arm worked tirelessly, without respite. To the onlookers, he seemed to have boundless reserves of energy.

Phanes backpedaled. His advantage lay in speed and precision. The raw elemental fury of Barca’s assault stymied his every move. Thrusts were batted aside, and a hammering counterattack met each slashing stroke. The Greek’s wrist grew numb from serving as Barca’s anvil.

Phanes launched himself at Barca, a new round of slash and thrust, parry and riposte, that brought them into another close embrace. Sweat poured down their faces, into their eyes. Muscle strained against muscle, sinew against sinew. Their blades locked together, grinding. Phanes threw a punch at Barca’s chin with his free hand, connected, and drew back for another. Barca responded in kind.

Quick as a snake Phanes ducked Barca’s punch, hooked the Phoenician’s leg and shoved with all his might. It was an old wrestler’s trick, and it caught Barca at unawares. He tried to regain his balance and failed, toppling to the ground. He

landed on his back; his sword jarred from his grasp.

Barca’s fall gave the Greek the opening he needed. With a triumphant yell, Phanes sprang forward and drove his blade into Barca’s belly. The tip of the weapon skittered down Barca’s cuirass and plunged, instead, into his thigh, nailing his leg to the ground.

The Phoenician roared in pain and anger.

The onlookers knew it was over. They knew …

Above him, the Greek was overextended, stumbling forward. He would have fallen had the Phoenician not caught him by the neckline of his cuirass and held him erect. Snarling, Barca grabbed Phanes’ sword by the blade and wrenched it from his thigh. Phanes’ eyes widened. His arms flailed; his feet sought purchase.

“I’ll see you in Hell!” Barca said, ramming the blade into the exposed hollow of Phanes’ throat and hurling him aside with a contemptuous shove.

Phanes of Halicarnassus died writhing on his belly.

Barca clambered to his feet, swaying, his weight on the Greek’s sword. The wound in his thigh was grave; blood sheeted down his leg. Around him, the onlookers were stunned to silence, staring at the Greek’s corpse. They glanced from Barca to Phanes and back again. Suddenly, one man faced hundreds.

Barca staggered forward. “Let’s end this! Come and die, you sons of whores!”

None among the Persians moved. The battle was over; they had won. They weren’t eager to die. There was some jostling amid their ranks as a few soldiers stepped to the forefront, Greeks for the most part, mercenaries from the island of Samos, not as eager to avenge their fallen commander as they were to claim glory as Barca’s slayer.

The Phoenician braced himself …

The massing Greeks faltered, shocked to see a horse crest the hill at full gallop. Its rider was fey, covered in blood. Long hair streamed out behind her as she descended on the enemy like a harpy out of myth.

They gave ground, gape-mouthed, as the rider barreled into their ranks. Limbs were crushed and broken in that press as men were trampled by the horse and by one another. The rider hauled on the reins and the mount, its footing unsure, reared and twisted, collapsing in a tangle of thrashing limbs. The rider was thrown clear.

In the moment’s respite, Barca snatched a piece of leather off the ground, a strap from a sandal, and cinched it around his thigh. Blood gushed from the severed artery, jetting in time with the beating of his heart. He made the tourniquet tight and caught up his sword. The Phoenician felt a surge of fear as Jauharah rose to her feet to stand at his side, a shattered spear in her fists.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed through clenched teeth. The enemy advanced slowly, wary. Barca could feel his strength beginning to ebb.

Jauharah kept the spear leveled at the breast of the closest Persian. “I’ll not be left behind.” She feinted at the Persian’s face, giving the man pause. The ring of foemen closed on them, weighing the odds of taking them out before too many of them were killed. In their eyes Barca read fear. Fear and respect. Not just for him. They knew well the fury of a woman. Cyrus, their beloved king and Cambyses’ father, had died at a woman’s hands. Jauharah’s appearance would not keep them at bay for long. He had to do something.

“Give her safe conduct and I will bend my neck to your blades!” Barca said. Beside him, he felt Jauharah stiffen.

“No! Barca! You can’t …”

“I’ll not see you harmed!” The Phoenician drew himself up to his full height and glared out over the sea of exhausted faces. “My life in exchange for hers! Who will speak for you?”

“I will,” a familiar voice said. The Persians parted their ranks, allowing the speaker through.

“Darius,” Barca said, bowing slightly. “Will you make me beg for her life?”

The Persian commander’s armor was smeared with a mixture of blood and grime, and dented by the fury of the fighting. His helm was gone. Blood oozed from a cut across his forehead. He glanced down at Phanes’ corpse. “We are weary of slaughter. You will both be spared.”

“In exchange for what?” Barca said, his teeth clenched against the cold spreading through his belly. He held Jauharah’s shoulder for support, and she could feel the pressure of his weight increasing. He was losing strength. “Kill me now and let her go, for I’ll be no man’s slave!”

“I admire valor in any man, friend or foe,” Darius said. “And you showed all of us today what valor truly is. I salute you, and give you both your freedom. None will touch you, I give you my word of honor! ”

“You’re an admirable man, Darius,” Barca said. “I’m glad I didn’t have to kill you.”

The young Persian smiled through his weariness. “Fetch their horse.”

Jauharah’s horse wandered nearby, terrified by the stench of blood and death. One of the Persians caught its rein and led it over to where they stood. Darius himself helped Barca into the saddle. Before Jauharah could mount behind him, the Persian commander drew her aside.

“That wound in his thigh …”

“I know.”

“Where will you go?”

Jauharah looked away; she looked to the south west. “It doesn’t matter, so long as I am with him.”

Darius sighed. “In the coming days, should you find yourself with no one else to turn to, remember my name and use it. I will do what I can for you.”

“You’ve done enough.” Jauharah swung up behind Barca. Deftly, she unbuckled his cuirass and let it fall to the ground. At a gesture, two Persians stepped forward and slipped Barca’s greaves off, leaving him clad in his sweat-and-blood stained linen corselet and bronze-studded leather kilt. Jauharah touched her heels to the horse’s flanks, and without a backward glance cantered off down the hillside.