Evening sunlight slanted through windows high in the western wall of the palace at Gaza. Motes of dust swirled and eddied through the air, their drifting disturbed by the approach of a man. Columns lined the way to the throne, casting alternating bands of light and shadow over the newcomer. A white cloak billowed out behind him like diaphanous wings.
King Qainu of Gaza knew the approach of the cloaked figure would not be a cause for joy. When word had come of a solitary rider entering Gaza from the north, Qainu had an idea of who it was. He ordered his courtiers and nobles away. Whatever message the newcomer bore would be for the ears of the king, alone. Qainu sat on a dais, on a throne of ivory-inlaid ebony wood, feeding gobbets of raw meat to a tiger crouched at his side, a gift from a king of distant Sind. The Arabian was a repellent man, fat and soft from years of debauchery. His long hair and beard were plaited and, in accordance with his gods, dyed blue-black. Qainu wore no crown but rather a five-thonged leather skullcap held in place by bands of gold and silver, indicative of the vast wealth of the incense trade.
Qainu had never been a man of war. He gained his throne in the time-honored traditions of treachery and guile. Poison in the cup and a knife in the back, those were methods he understood. Not armies. Not conquest. Those were the instruments of an Assyrian, of an Egyptian, of a Persian. Organized violence was the playground of the man who stalked toward him.
"You play a dangerous game, friend," Qainu said as the man drew near. "Your enemies are at my gate, and yet you stroll into my palace as if it were the agora at Athens. The Egyptians would pay well for your head, or so I've heard. Perhaps I should present it to them as a symbol of my loyalty?"
Phanes of Halicarnassus laughed, offering the Arabian king nothing in the way of homage. "Don't try to bluff me, Qainu. We both know you don't have the balls to take my head. Were I in your place, I would worry more about what my Egyptian masters will think when they see me ensconced not as a governor, but as a tyrant." The Greek indicated the throne room.
Phanes presented the perfect blend of insouciance and arrogance tempered with the wariness of a stalking lion. He had changed little since the Fates frowned on him at Memphis. Leaner perhaps, his muscles sharpened by deprivation; a vengeful light in his eyes gave him the aspect of a homicidal Adonis. Beneath his cloak the Greek wore a bronze cuirass inlaid with figures of silver and obsidian, Charon leading a slain Achilles across the river Styx.
The tiger at Qainu's side stretched, growling, its yellow eyes fixed on the Greek, a predator sensing its own. Perturbed, Qainu said, "Why have you come? Is Cambyses displeased with my preparations? Have I not met the letter of our agreement? I have camel trains of water stationed along the desert route with trustworthy men from the tribes guarding them. What more …?"
"No, you've done well, Qainu. Cambyses appreciates your cooperation. The vanguard approaches. As we speak, Lord Darius is exacting tokens of submission from the cities of Phoenicia. I'm here because I heard a troop of Egyptians left Pelusium bound for Gaza. I came to observe."
Qainu's throne creaked as he shifted his weight. The king scowled. "You are welcome in my court whenever it suits you, my friend, but you could not have chosen a worse time. Your very presence is enough to wreck my plans. The Egyptians have not forgotten Phanes of Halicarnassus."
"I will be the soul of discretion, Qainu."
The king leaned forward, his fingers gripping the arm rests of the throne so tightly his whitened knuckles cracked. "Please, return to Lord Darius! As a show of good faith, I'll not send you away empty handed."
Phanes waved him off. "Keep your gold. I have no need for it."
"I would not insult you by offering something of little interest to you. Where other men crave wealth, you crave information. Something has come to me that is of paramount importance to our Persian masters! "
"So important that you did not at once relay it to Cambyses?" Phanes said, his manner one of open skepticism. "Tell me, and I will decide as to its worth."
"The Son of Ra has rejoined his Father," Qainu said.
Phanes blinked. "You lie!"
"A messenger arrived two days ago from Sais instructing me to relay the information to the Egyptian commander, along with the blessings of Ankhkaenre Psammetichus."
"Amasis is dead, and Psammetichus wears the crown?" Phanes said, his voice like the low hiss of a serpent. His teeth ground in silent anger as he paced back and forth, cursing under his breath. Soon, the spasm passed. "How long were you planning to keep this close to your heart? Did you not think what it might mean to Cambyses' strategy? Without an experienced leader, Egypt's armies will flounder. Psammetichus may have sprung from his father's loins, but he is no Amasis. The native generals will tear him apart. Zeus Savior, you fool! You'll be fortunate to escape the King's wrath!"
"So, you will take this back to Lord Darius." Though the thought of Cambyses' anger chilled him, Qainu had more pressing concerns at the moment. He was wedged between the two greatest powers of his generation — not a safe place to be for someone harboring ambitions of his own. For his plans to achieve fruition, he had to present the facade of a loyal subject. For that to happen, he needed Phanes as far from Gaza as possible.
"You leave me little choice," the Greek said.
"Good. I'll have my grooms prepare afresh horse. You…" But, the Arabian king did not have a chance to finish. Guards thrust the polished cedar doors open and filed in, escorting Merodach and the envoy of the Egyptians. Qainu turned to hiss a warning to Phanes, but the Greek was gone, vanished into the shadows as if he had never been there at all. The Arabian felt as though he walked along the edge of a razor.
Merodach scuttled up to the throne and prostrated himself.
"My lord King," he said. "I present to you Callisthenes of Naucratis, aide to General Barca and liaison to the Egyptians."
Callisthenes approached, bowing. "King Qainu of Arabia, overlord of Kedar and protector of the peoples of Edom, for your household, your wives, your sons, your nobles, your horses, your troops, Pharaoh sends his blessings of prosperity and health." Callisthenes drew breath to continue, but an inarticulate howl of rage cut him off. He looked around, scowling.
A figure hurtled from the shadows. Callisthenes had the impression of burnished bronze and white cloth as a whirlwind of fists hammered him to his knees. A voice he had not heard since Memphis screamed in his ear: "You traitorous bastard!"
No longer the soft merchant of Naucratis, Callisthenes ducked a blow that would have snapped his neck, snagged Phanes' sword belt, and shot a series of quick punches into his groin. Phanes staggered, off balance, as Callisthenes clawed at the hilt of his sword. On the dais, Qainu's tiger roared.
A split second later, Merodach and the Arab guards separated the Greeks. Dazed, Callisthenes sat back on his haunches, blood starting from his nose and lip. Soldiers in studded corselets and spired, turban-wrapped helmets held Phanes at spear point.
"I must protest!" Merodach shrieked. "This is a grave breach of protocol! Are we dogs to cast aside the sanctity of our pledge? The Egyptians have come to us under a banner of truce, a banner of good will! I — "
"Be silent, Merodach," Qainu said. His eyes were slits. "You know this one, Phanes?"
"Know him? He's the one who betrayed me to Pharaoh at Memphis! " Phanes said, his features hard, vengeful. "Your father was one of my dearest friends, like a brother to me! I trusted you! "
"And you're more the fool for it! " Callisthenes hissed, rising to his feet. "My father curried your friendship because it was expedient. You were a tool, and he warned me your ambition far outstripped your ability. Egypt does not need Persian rule, much less Greek!"
"Spoken like a true native!" Phanes said. He looked at Qainu. "Kill him! He is a snake, a serpent in the garden who would strike at our heels when our backs are turned. Further, if our positions were reversed, I would order my men to excise this Egyptian cancer from my shores. Kill them all! "
The tiger at Qainu's side twitched its tail, growling, agitated by the scents of blood, adrenalin, and fear. The king stroked the nape of its neck. "And were I you," Qainu said, "I would return to my masters with all due haste. Remember what I have told you! "
"I will go, but he comes with me!" Phanes said, jabbing his thumb at Callisthenes.
Qainu shook his head. "He is not for you, Phanes. Not today. Perhaps I will give him to you when you return, perhaps not. As of now, I need this one as insurance should my plans fail."
For a moment fury blazed in Phanes' eyes. His hand twisted into a claw, itching to feel the hilt of his sword. He might have thrown himself on the Arabian king were it not assured he would die on a hedge of spears before ever touching the hem of Qainu's robe. An eternity passed in the span of a heartbeat. Hands shifted their grips on spear shafts. Sweat rolled down Merodach's nose. The tiger coughed in anticipation …
Suddenly, Phanes laughed and offered a deep bow, ending it with a dramatic flourish. "I stand corrected, Qainu. You have balls the size of melons. I will inform Lord Darius that the road to Egypt's border is clear, thanks to our Arabian friends. But, remember this, and remember it well, when I return, if you try to withhold him from me, I'll pull this palace down stone by stone!" He turned and glared at Callisthenes. "Keep yourself safe, merchant. We have business yet to finish!"
To Phanes' surprise Callisthenes did not quail or grovel. He drew himself up and spat, his face flushed with defiance. "I'll be here waiting, boy-fucker!"
Phanes spun, his cloak billowing out behind him. His laughter redoubled as he retraced his steps from the throne room.
Silence ruled. Men stared at one another, and at the Greek. At a word from their King, the soldiers would impale the Egyptian envoy on their spears. They waited expectantly. Merodach wrung his hands and finally spoke.
"I cannot be a party to this! By all the laws of hospitality, of protocol, held sacred by the goddess Alilat and thriceblessed Orotalt, by Ishtar and Marduk, I beg of you, 0 King! Reconsider this course of action. These seeds of deceit will bear bitter fruit!"
"Listen to your chancellor, Qainu!" Callisthenes said. "You're making a grave mistake! Barca will. ."
"Your general will be dead by sunrise. My mercenaries will see to it. For the moment, though, I require your silence. Guard." Qainu stroked his beard, his brows furrowed in thought. Before Callisthenes could react, the soldier behind him reversed his spear and rammed the weighted butt against the base of his skull. Callisthenes staggered and fell and did not move.
Merodach stood aghast.
"Did an honor guard accompany him?"
"Y-Yes, 0 King," the chancellor stammered.
"Send them away. If they resist, tell them the noble Callisthenes is under the protection of the King of Gaza, and he will call for them upon the morrow." The king motioned to the unconscious Greek. "Take him away. Lock him in the Dolphin Chamber, above the West Hall. Feed him well and see to his every need." Qainu chortled at the goggle-eyed expression on his chancellor's face. "I'm not daft, Merodach, and I yet possess a shred of common sense. It's not often I get to flaunt a man like Phanes. We will hold this Callisthenes safe until his return."
Merodach could only stare as soldiers carried out their master's orders. What manner of madman did he serve?
The encampment site lay scarcely half a mile from the harbor, on the southern edge of Gaza. Barca stopped on the shoulder of the winding road. Egyptian soldiers tramped along, happy to be ashore after two weeks at sea. Torches cast circles of lurid orange light over the heavily rutted track. The Phoenician glanced back the way they had come. Maiumas at dusk was a chaotic sprawl with no identifiable plan, no meticulously plotted grid of streets and cross-streets. Instead, squat, flatroofed buildings grew like a fungus from the beaches and quays, rising to a precarious height along the ridge of sandscoured rock. In the sky above, crimson fingers of sunlight pierced the velvet as stars flared into existence, constellations forming beacons, landmarks for navigator and oracle alike.
The mood in Maiumas spoke of quiet desperation. Men and women labored as they had for centuries, their lives inexorably tied to the sea. They wove their nets by hand; scrounged through refuse heaps for cast-off bits of copper or bronze to forge into hooks; lived from day to day in a broth of fish guts and brine, their eyes rarely leaving the far horizon. In many ways their reliance on the currents and rhythms of the Mediterranean mirrored Egyptian dependence on the Nile. To survive, the folk of Maiumas became intimate with the mercurial waters; they knew the patterns of the winds, where the reefs and shoals were, what time of year the harshest storms arose. They sacrificed to Marna, to Anat, to Resheph: gods of wind and rain, squall and typhoon. In times of dire need, when the gods demanded immediate appeasement, their children were delivered to the priests of Ba'al to be immolated in the sacred fire. The men and women of Maiumas lived with hardship and deprivation, eking what life they could from their pitiless world while the wealthy of Gaza, three miles inland, reaped the rewards of their blood and tears.
Barca scanned the ships moored along the quays. Could any of them have belonged to his family? The house of Barca had wielded powerful influence along this coast at one time, before the disastrous thirteen-year siege of Tyre by the armies of Nebuchadnezzar. That debacle had broken Tyrian supremacy and scattered her more influential citizens to the four winds. His grandfather fled to Carthage; his father, Gisco, settled in Egypt. Barca himself had only the slenderest recollection of those days, images and emotions rather than true memories.
He turned and found Jauharah waiting for him. She smiled. "You look deep in thought."
"Remembering," Barca replied. She fell in beside him as he followed in the wake of a rumbling ox-cart. Soldiers and sailors bantered, and their laughter seemed out of place along the lonely road. "I was a child the last time I saw the harbors of Tyre, but I remember enough. This place …"
A stone shifted under Jauharah's foot. Barca made to catch her, but their hands stopped short of actually touching. Jauharah steadied herself with an outstretched arm. "My body still rolls with the sea swells."
Barca smiled. "Your balance will return soon enough." He lapsed into silence, his brow furrowed in thought. Soon, he glanced sidelong at her. "Your people, they are from this region? "
"Not quite," Jauharah said. "My family lived in the Shara Mountains, perhaps a week's ride to the southeast, on the borders of Edom. My father was Bedouin, an exile from the tents of the Rualla, who found refuge with my mother's family. Beyond that, I remember very little about them."
"Do you miss them?"
Jauharah sighed. "Not particularly. I have forgotten so much. My only clear memory is of the narrow chasm leading to the heart of Sela, the rock-cut fortress where my family dwelt. The air in that crevice was always cool and moist, no matter how hot the surrounding desert got, and in the evening it smelled of garlic and searing meat. I can recall kneeling on a ledge beneath the sentry posts praying my father would never return from trading in Elath."
"You disliked your father?"
Jauharah hugged herself, shivering despite the warmth of the evening. "He was barbaric, even by Asiatic standards." Jauharah employed the Egyptian term used to describe the inhabitants of Palestine: Asiatic. Usually preceded by `wretched' or `cursed', the name encompassed Syrians, Phoenicians, Ammonites, Israelites, Moabites, Edomites, and Arabs. To Egyptians, all Asiatics were one in the same. "I had six brothers and four sisters. A fifth sister was born, and in a rage my father bashed the infant's head against a rock. Later, my mother defended what he had done, saying sons were a sign of strength and daughters a reminder of weakness. My father did not need another reminder."
As she spoke a sheet of white-hot anger blurred the Phoenician's vision. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms until they bled. He could tolerate many things, but violence against children went against his grain. Slowly, he brought his rage under control. His voice, when he at last found it, was tight. "I have never been a father, but I know in the depths of my soul that I would love my daughters as much as my sons, and none of them would have anything to fear from me."
"That's one of the differences between you and my father, Hasdrabal. Where you are noble and kind beneath a hard exterior, he was loathsome and weak. I hope …" Jauharah stopped. Barca turned to see what was wrong, and she waved him on. He could see she was flushed, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Respecting her wishes, Barca continued on. Jauharah melted into the baggage train.
Ahmad approached. He and his men led the Egyptians, and already the two cadres were mingling, trading knives, belts, and trinkets. "Trouble with your woman?"
Barca glared at him. Wisely, the Arabian let it drop.
"How long since you left Egypt?"
"Two weeks. We left Sais and sailed for Pelusium, thence to Gaza. Why?"
Ahmad leaned close to Barca. "A messenger arrived two days past, from Egypt I'm told. Heard from my men in the palace that he bore ill tidings. Thought you might know what it was about. The old Pharaoh has been ill, has he not?"
Barca's face betrayed no emotion. So, word of Pharaoh's poor health had spread to the frontiers. Did the Persians know? Most likely. "He is an old man," Barca said. "Old men are frequently down with this ailment, or that. If Psammetichus leads the army rather than Ahmose, it changes nothing. Tell me, you said you have two hundred men. At full strength Gaza is supposed to field a thousand. Where are the others?"
The Arabian captain shrugged. "The King is not as quick to replenish our numbers. Instead, he hires mercenaries from among the Bedouin of Sinai as guards for his caravans and his person. Ask me, it's like letting the lions shepherd the flock."
"You and your men are not his personal guard?"
"That honor belongs to a sand-rat named Zayid. The King calls him his general, but he's nothing more than a desert brigand. Bah! We used to stake his kind out over anthills before Qainu stole his father's throne."
"What of the Persians?" Barca asked. "Does Qainu not fear them?"
"Why would he?"
"Should Cambyses win, he will depose Qainu and install a satrap, a puppet he can easily rule. Your king does not seem the type, from what I have heard, to sit idly by while his throne, and his source of income, is handed off to another."
"He is already a puppet." Ahmad looked pointedly at Barca, and the Phoenician read the revelation in the Arab's dark eyes. "I like you, Phoenician, and I will do what I can to aid you against the Persians. But only against the Persians, if you understand my meaning."
Barca nodded, his eyes like a winter storm — icy and wrathful. "Perfectly."
Callisthenes awoke in the arms of a woman.
He gave a start, wondering who the Arabs had thrown him in with. The back of his skull felt tender, and his head throbbed. Slowly, the haze lifted from his vision, and he was able to make out his surroundings.
The woman under him was Amphitrite, daughter of Oceanus, and she was part of the exquisite painting decorating the floor of his makeshift cell. The chamber was spacious and colorful, done in every imaginable shade of blue and green. Frescoes reached to the ceiling, depicting sea life both real and imagined: dolphins, octopi, fish, serpents, Nereids. Callisthenes felt as if he were drowning in a watery prison.
A divan and a low table were the only furnishings, and a pair of bronze lamps provided ample light. Callisthenes groaned, rising to his feet. He shuffled over and sat on the divan, putting his face in his hands. He was weary beyond anything he had ever known. As a counterpoint, his whole body vibrated with pent-up rage, a ferocity that he could feel as if it were a source of heat. "Zeus Savior and Ares! "
Callisthenes exhaled slowly and tried to slow his pulse. His head drummed in time with the beating of his heart; a dull ache spread behind his eyes. He had learned from Barca that it was best to conserve your strength, to practice quietude in such situations. It did no one any good to pace around and rail at the gods. As bleak as his prospects looked, at least that Arabian bastard hadn't given him over to Phanes or simply killed him out of hand. Now, every day spent in captivity was a day he could use to make good his escape.
Escape to where? Qainu said Barca would be dead by sunrise. Callisthenes did not believe it, but whatever the King had planned could not be in Egypt's best interest. And Phanes! His being in Gaza could only mean Qainu was in bed with the Persians.
The sound of a key scraping in the lock of his door brought Callisthenes to his feet. It swung open, allowing him a brief glimpse of the lamplit corridor and a hawkish Bedouin guard leaning on his spear. A cortege of women bustled into the room, bearing platters of food, beakers of wine and water, fresh clothing, and stone pots of Egyptian cosmetics. In their wake came Merodach.
The chancellor waited as the women deposited their burdens on the table and the divan, then with a curt gesture he motioned them from the room. He closed the door behind them, giving him and the Greek a bit of privacy.
When he turned to Callisthenes, the Babylonian's face screwed up in a look of supreme distaste. "Forgive me! Had I known what my King intended … he told me he would listen to both sides, Egyptian and Persian! I had no idea his loyalty was already decided," he said, his teeth grinding. "King Qainu says the Egyptian star is on the wane. He has no desire to attach his fortunes, and the fortunes of his kingdom, to a hopeless cause. He claims it would have been madness to refuse the Great King of Persia! Sheer madness!"
Callisthenes fixed the little chancellor with a baleful stare. "And is that what you believe?" He could read displeasure in the Babylonian's body language. The jut of his jaw, his rigid posture, spoke volumes about his character. Merodach had been suckled on deceit, weaned on deception; he had forgotten more about palace intrigue than Callisthenes would ever know. Yet, whatever he might say, the Greek knew he was furious with his lord.
"I believe he is a fool! A fat, greedy fool!" Merodach hissed. "But what I believe changes nothing. He plans on giving you over to lord Phanes when the Persian vanguard arrives."
Callisthenes grabbed the chancellor's arm. "Can you get word to Barca?"
Merodach shook his head. "It is too late to warn him. Your general is in Marduk's hands now. All I can do is try and secure your freedom before the Persians arrive."
"Why is it too late to warn Barca?" Callisthenes said. "What treachery has your master planned? He mentioned mercenaries …?"
Merodach rubbed the bridge of his nose. "All I can tell you is that tomorrow it will be as if the Egyptians never existed. It would be best if we looked to your safety."
"Damn you, Merodach! Get a message to Barca, and I will make sure he knows what part you played in all this!" said Callisthenes.
The chancellor sighed, opening the door. "There are things I cannot be a party to, and betraying the trust of my master is one of them. I wish I could do more for you, Callisthenes." He turned to leave then stopped, indicating the tray of covered dishes. "Try the lamb. You'll find it particularly delicious." He spun and left, locking the door behind him.
The sound stung Callisthenes like a whip. His body stiffened. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a bestial snarl. "Try the lamb?" he hissed. And the part of him that sought to master his anger shrank, then vanished altogether. Rage boiled in his chest — rage at Qainu, at Phanes, at Merodach — a blood-red inferno that seared away logic and reason and left him with only the insatiable desire to destroy.
Callisthenes cursed every god, demi-god, hero, man, woman, and child he could think of; he spewed blasphemies in Greek and Egyptian that would have shocked the court of Dionysus. Still, his rage grew unchecked. He smashed beakers of wine, hurled a stone bowl of dates against the far wall. His fists shattered pottery bowls and plates. Callisthenes battered aside the lid covering Merodach's precious lamb …
… and stopped cold. He blinked, unsure of what he saw. In place of a succulent rack of lamb Callisthenes found a curved Bedouin knife, long as a man's forearm. He picked it up and stared at his reflection in the polished bronze blade. Beneath it, in charcoal, someone had drawn a crude map of the palace. Callisthenes blinked again. His anger fizzled and died, like a torch thrust into water.
"Merodach," he whispered, "the gods love a hypocrite."
Jauharah stood beside one of the wagons and watched the Egyptian camp rise from the darkness around her. Torches blazed, turning the flat, sandy plain into a surreal landscape of light and shadow. She spotted Barca. He moved among the troops, Ahmad at his side, his every gesture curt, professional, with never a wasted movement, never a misstep. Like his own soldiers, the Arabs would not doubt any command he gave them, no matter how fruitless or absurd. He was their ideal, what they aspired to be. Where they had slain dozens, he had slain hundreds. Where they were wolves, Barca was a lion.
Of the men she had known, Hasdrabal Barca was perhaps the most singular. Violent when provoked, otherwise he was quiet, even gentle. He endured the terrible burden of being born a killer. Oh, her father was a violent man, as well. But, where he used violence to subjugate his family, to bend the helpless to his will, to make a point, Barca used it to protect and to punish.
Jauharah felt a pang of guilt. Almost without thinking she had lied about her recollections of family. Such memories lived in the darkest recesses of her mind, rarely recalled and never discussed. He did not need to know how her father had used his daughters as his own private harem, or how her mother had bled to death after piercing her womb with a knife to avoid the curse of another daughter, or how her father had sold her off to pay a debt. These were wounds to her soul that were scabbed over, crusted by time and distance.
But they would never heal.
Probing them earlier loosened the scabs. Sharp tendrils of pain wormed their way through her heart. She sifted through her feelings, through the morass of emotions that had arisen since Memphis. Anger, longing, fear, shame, confusion, grief — crippling, soul-searing grief. Not her manumission by Pharaoh or even the growing intimacy between her and the Phoenician could assuage that grief.
Amidst the turmoil Jauharah felt useless. She stood out of the way, watching as sailors from the Atum erected a haphazard tangle of tents. Egyptian soldiers established a perimeter for the sentries to walk and gathered wood for watch fires, while shaven-headed priests supervised the unloading of a shrine to Neith. Everyone had a task to perform, save her. She glanced around.
The level spit of land Ahmad led them to was good ground, well ventilated by the constant breezes flowing off the Mediterranean. Behind her, to the north, lay Maiumas, its lights glittering like jewels on velvet; south, the dark gulf of the open desert. To the east, she had been told, beyond the low hills, lay the worn and dusty track of the coastal road, the Way of Horns; west, she could hear the sough and sigh of the ocean. A sandscoured jumble of stones stood on a promontory overlooking the beach. In its heyday the place had been opulent, its colonnades and gardens the scene of countless trysts, assignations, and rendezvous. But its day was long past. Untold years ago the pleasure palace fell victim to the internecine wars plaguing Palestine. Torch and sword shattered columns, toppled walls, and laid waste to gardens. Now, the only good the ruin served was as a nesting place for gulls.
The Atum's captain ambled past. He was an apish man, squat and broad-shouldered, with a face seamed by countless squalls. She caught his arm. "Just get 'em up, dogs! " he bellowed, then turned and glared at the woman who had dared lay her hands on him. She met him eye to eye.
"What is your name," Jauharah asked.
"Senmut," he said. His eyes slid up and down her body. She felt her confidence waver. She was a slave, subservient to his every whim. Her eyes should be downcast. Her …
No! I am a free woman. "Senmut, order your men to erect the tents around this ruin." Her voice quavered slightly, then grew stern and commanding, becoming the voice mistress Tetisheri used when her will was not to be questioned. "This will serve as the general's command post. The tents of the House of Life should go on the desert side of this ruin, unobstructed, so they can receive the benefits of the sea air. The mess tent should go on the side of the ruin facing the harbor, so resupply will not be too difficult. Above all, make the tent rows orderly and neat, like columns in a temple."
To Jauharah's surprise Senmut inclined his head, saying, "As you wish." He turned back to his men and barked orders. "Not like that, you ignorant wretches! Make 'em neat. . "
Jauharah moved on to the tents that would house any casualties they might receive. Old soldiers, men who had fought in battles since before she was born, deferred to her wishes, realigning the tents to take advantage of the freshening breeze. She consulted with Bay about sending a deputation into the city to replace some herbs and medicines that had spoiled during the sea voyage. The quartermaster agreed, promising to seek her out tomorrow for a list of what they needed. She hid her elation at their nascent acceptance by throwing herself into her work.
It was after midnight before Jauharah's elation faded into exhaustion. She asked after her belongings and learned they had been tucked away in Barca's tent. To the rank and file, she was his woman; they expected her sleeping arrangements to reflect that. Jauharah shrugged. She would sleep on the floor so long as no one disturbed her.
The Phoenician's tent was larger than the others, though beyond that there was nothing ostentatious or gaudy about it. It surely did not reflect the rank of the man who would dwell within. The interior maintained that air of Spartan simplicity. An Egyptian-style bed with a mattress of cord matting lay inside a frame draped with sheer linen panels. That bed, a table, and a soot-stained bronze brazier were the extent of the furnishings. Someone had left a loaf of bread and a jug of beer on the table, alongside an urn of fresh water. Jauharah blessed whoever it was. At least she could sponge off the sweat and grit.
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 timehonored 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 uadjet
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.