The hills ringing Raphia were slashed with gullies and arroyos; bleak cliffs stood sentinel over the Way of Horns. The road curved serpentine before plunging into a deep cleft surmounted by ridges of loose rock and scree. The natural bottleneck was the perfect site for an ambush, and Otanes, who commanded the Persian outriders, knew it too. He and his men were part of a probe, the tentative thrust of a hand well-versed in strategy and tactics. This was the third time they had tested this section of road in as many days; Otanes had lost count of how many such sorties they had attempted in the week since leaving Gaza.
Otanes reined in his horse, peering through the swirling dust kicked up by the column of soldiers at his back. His throat was raw and dry; sweat poured down his ribs, soaking the linen corselet he wore under his scale armor. By the blessed Ahuramazda! This place was a furnace. The cooling winds of the Mediterranean did not reach this far inland. Here, nothing moved the humid air.
He scanned the ridges above, wary. Otanes' heritage gave him the right to command — he was of undiluted Persian blood from Anshan, at the heart of the empire — and his wits gave him the wherewithal to command well. A soldier born, as the old adage says, to bend the bow and speak the truth, Otanes did not consider it a slight that his name was never offered as a candidate to lead the regiment left behind to secure Gaza in preparation for His Majesty's arrival. He knew his instincts made him more useful in the field. These same instincts warned him: the cursed Phoenician and his soldiers were waiting ahead.
"Sir?" his lieutenant, ayoung Mede called Bagoas, leaned forward in the saddle. "Do we proceed?"
"So quick to find glory and death, Bagoas?" Otanes murmured, not looking at the man. His gaze was riveted on a spot where the jumbled boulders hung precariously to the cliffside. "Tiribazos rushed in, and look what happened to him. An Egyptian arrow in the gullet. Myself, I'd like to die in a different kind of saddle, if you get my meaning."
Bagoas chuckled.
After a moment Otanes nodded to himself. He saw no sign of an ambush, despite the tightly-clenched ball of foreboding in his gut. Perhaps it was farther up the road this time, or perhaps the Egyptians had withdrawn. Either way, he would proceed with caution. He held his hand up and motioned his column forward.
Harness jingled as the Persians entered the defile. Dozens of eyes rolled skyward, staring at the silent cliffs. With every step breathing became more difficult as the noose of apprehension tightened about their throats. Each soldier made a promise to himself to sacrifice to the blessed Ahuramazda should they live to see the far end of the ravine.
Otanes' neck muscles creaked as he glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Bagoas shifted uneasily and looked up. His breath caught in his throat as he spotted the reflection of sunlight on metal. He opened his mouth to shout a warning …
"Loose!" a voice roared from above, echoing through the narrow defile.
Arrows slashed down through the bright morning sunlight, a bronze-barbed rain that found chinks in armor, punched through hastily raised shields, and clattered on scorched rock. Otanes shouted as he toppled from his saddle; horses bucked and reared as arrows raked their dusty flanks. In an instant, the well-ordered Persian ranks were thrown into disarray.
Young Bagoas, so far unscathed, controlled his mount with his knees, spinning the horse about. For the rest of his life, Bagoas would remember only one thing about that ambush, a single vision sharpened by adrenalin and fear: Otanes slumped against the rocks, his eyes fixed and staring, with an arrow jutting from his cervical spine.
Bagoas signaled a withdrawal …
Barca nocked his final arrow and sighted down the shaft. Clouds of dust rising from the terrified horses obscured his vision. Regardless, he let loose into the heart of the chaos. No thrill arose from the act. No exultation flowed through his veins, roaring up from that dark wellspring of his soul to inflame his limbs with renewed vigor. During the fight at Gaza, his anger had been reticent, difficult to provoke. Now, the source of his anger felt cold and dead.
A horn brayed, and the horsemen below withdrew, their shields held high against the dwindling barrage of arrows. From Barca's vantage the Persians were patient, unperturbed. Not even the lack of potable water disturbed them. Barca had sent men all around with orders to poison every well and water hole they could find, while others burned granaries and slew livestock. Most of the people of this district had fled from the coming destruction, disappearing into the trackless wastes with all they could carry. In spite of his efforts, the Persians would be well-supplied by Phoenician ships.
Barca gave the signal and his Egyptians, barely two score, broke off their attack and faded down the hillsides toward Raphia. Gaza and the strategic withdrawal down the Way of Horns had taken a fearsome toll on his men. Of the three hundred who had followed him from Sais, scarcely one third could move under their own power. All bore tell-tale signs of fighting: blood-smeared bandages, notched swords, dented corselets. Each quiver in their possession had enough arrows for one last ambush. This was fast becoming a hopeless fight.
The Egyptians drifted down a narrow gorge, moving quickly but silently away from the ambush site. These jagged hills were full of switchbacks and box canyons, arid flats and dunes; the eroded sandstone cliffs were dotted with withered grass and sedge.
They crossed a bare valley scarred by a cruelly twisting dry streambed. Beyond the next ridge the hills opened up, and a goat trail led down to Raphia.
From the heights the village was unlovely, a collection of stone huts clinging to an indentation in the coastline, and its beauty grew less with proximity. Rutted streets, flaking plaster walls, and the smell of rotting fish gave it all the allure of an open sewer. The folk of Raphia were rustics, by Egyptian standards; a dull and unimaginative people who divided their time between fishing and herding sheep. The Way of Horus brought caravans through Raphia, and the ancillary profits earned from serving the whims of the drovers and guards should have made the village wealthy. From what Barca saw, they more than likely drank their profits away. Beyond the village, the Way of Horus entered a stretch of harsh sandscoured waste, a desert buffer that ran to the very threshold of Egypt. Barca did not relish the thought of fighting a running battle through that inferno.
Callisthenes stumbled toward him through the scrub. In his corselet and helmet, scavenged from the dead at Gaza, Callisthenes looked the part of a soldier: grimy, bloodied, his eyes possessing that unfocused stare of a man who had seen too much of death.
"Tenacious bastards," the Greek grunted, jacking his helmet back and wiping sweat from his eyes. "How many days now have they tried the same tactic? What the hell are they waiting for? I heard the scouts say the Persians are five thousand strong, the cream of the Hyrkanian steppe. Why don't they just wash us aside like a sand wall before a storm?"
"Are you always so full of questions?" Barca snapped.
The Greek shrugged, metal scales clashing. "It is a gift. Some men are blessed with fair features, others with gilded tongues, still more are granted martial superiority. The gods saw fit to grant me boundless curiosity."
"Gods, indeed. You remind me of Tjemu," Barca said. A part of him regretted leaving his Medjay behind at Pelusium; they, too, had scores to settle with Phanes. "In answer to your questions: I do not know. If I could read other men's minds, I'm sure the waging of war would have lost its luster long ago."
"Would you care to speculate?"
Barca said nothing. Exhaustion left him silent and brooding, bereft of the will to explain. Despite his accolades and triumphs, Barca knew it was no great thing to wage war. Any fool with sense and speed could take up the sword and do as much or better than he. True courage came not in facing death, but in facing life. In that, the Phoenician branded himself a coward. For twenty years he had hid from life, burying himself in battle and blood in hopes that life would pass by, or at worst it would see him and know fear. Where other men raised families and grew crops, Barca razed crops and slew families. He had murdered the woman he professed to love. What was left, then, but to follow her down that self-same road to hell?
No, he did not believe that. Not anymore. Just as a patch of burnt earth would become green with time, a soul could mend itself and become whole again. The anger and self recrimination that had sustained him for these long years had burned itself out, as a fire left unattended in the hearth, leaving him open to feel … not happiness, no, that was the fodder of poets and romantics. Peace, then? He could live with peace.
Callisthenes continued, sullen. "I'm not like you, Barca. I'm scared shitless. What if they try another assault later today, or tomorrow? What will we do? What plan. ."
"Like me?" Barca frowned. "Am I so different from you? Am I some kind of monster who lives only for the smell, taste, and feel of strife? Truth be told, Callisthenes, I'm just a man, with every weakness and flaw embodied by that small word. If you're scared, then imagine the terror that must be upon me, for I have not only your life and mine, but the lives of every man among us to concern with."
"But, you seem so … unaffected."
"Would you follow a man who wore his fears on his sleeve? For as long as I can remember, I did not allow it to affect me. I thought it a sign of weakness to fret over the lives of men pledged to war. I had a healthy hatred for death and that, coupled with bravado, would take the field in every battle. I was only partially correct."
"I don't follow," Callisthenes said. Barca stopped and faced the smaller man.
"I did not have a hatred of death, after all, rather a fear of life. Callisthenes, you're not going to die here, not today. I have an idea of what our options are, but I need time to breathe and think. Give me a few hours, and I'll have the answers you seek."
The Greek nodded as Barca descended into the village. In the back of his mind, he wondered if the Phoenician would have the answer to what was fast becoming his most pressing question: What has happened to you?
Jauharah lifted the iron from the fire, eyeing its white-hot tip. The man on the table writhed against the two soldiers holding him down, muscular men in blood-spattered kilts. Pain and madness glinted in his eyes. She had removed an arrow from his shoulder, a gift from the Persians, and now she moved to cauterize the puncture.
"Hold him steady," she said. Her orderlies nodded, bracing themselves against the wounded man's thrashings. Jauharah exhaled and brought the tip of the iron down into the raw, bleeding puncture.
Blood hissed, and the stench of seared flesh filled the small hut. The man screamed. The soldiers held his upper body immobile while his lower body twisted this way and that, like a serpent in its death throes. Pain unclenched his bowels and bladder; a new stink clogged the already foul air. Jauharah stepped away, allowing her aides room to bathe the wound in a solution of vinegar and water and bandage it in fresh linen.
Dropping the iron in the fire, she shuffled to the door. Her eyes were red, her hair plastered to her back with sweat. The man on the table would live, unlike so many she had treated since that night at Gaza. How many lives had fled to the netherworld under her hands? A score? Two? She had lost count. Not even their faces could be dredged from the abyss of her memory.
Jauharah stepped into the bright sunlight, feeling its heat on her shoulders and back. Though only two hours since dawn, already the day had a merciless edge. The only respite came from the breeze, heavy with the tang of salt, which blew constantly off the sea. It stirred her lank, sweat-heavy hair and tugged at the hem of her shift. She plucked at the fabric. It was stiff with dried blood and crusted with fluids whose origins she did not care to ponder, and it stank. The smell of Death clung to her.
A bath was in order. She went to the hut she shared with Barca and gathered up a few things: a clean linen shift, a towel, her bronze razor, what cosmetics that remained to her, and a flask of aromatic oil. There were pools down the beach from the village, screened by rocks and scrub trees, where she could bathe in relative peace. She placed the items in a reed basket and bent her steps toward the sea.
What few villagers remained eyed her as she passed with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust. They sat in doorways, on benches, their hands busy with such make-work as they could find, mending nets and sharpening copper hooks. Most were aged and infirm; their reluctant kin had left them behind, taking everything else of value and vanishing into the waste. To Jauharah, these elders were the true riches of Raphia: men and women with a lifetime of experience to draw upon; a lifetime of tales and stories. Barca called them dull, but their simple wisdom comforted her.
She crossed the bare patch of packed and rutted earth that served as Raphia's bazaar, pausing by the tent where the soldiers took their meals. They sat together in twos and threes, hollow-eyed, shattered from heat and exhaustion, eating bread and dried figs and drinking water.
"Are there any wounded among you?" she asked.
They shook their heads. "We were posted off to the north," one of them offered, scratching at a scab forming on his grimy forearm. "Near the boulders called the Tits … begging your pardon. The attack came on the main road. Arrow storm. I thank Horus I am not a Persian." A dozen heads bobbed in assent.
Jauharah set her basket down and checked a bandaged forehead. The soldier winced as her fingers lifted the edge of the linen. "Have the orderlies clean that," she told him softly. "And the rest of you keep water handy. This heat is as deadly as a spear or a sword." They nodded, smiling, as she caught up her basket and continued down to the sea.
At the verge of the beach Jauharah shaded her eyes. The Atum lay down the strand beside a palisade of upright oars, canted to expose her hull. Under Senmut's guidance, half the sailors scraped and cleaned the planking, the surf washing at their ankles. The rest worked at patching sail and mending rope. Jauharah could hear snatches of song that faded into coarse laughter. A few noticed her, glancing up from their work. That sense of menace she had felt so strongly after boarding the ship was gone, replaced with an almost sisterly affection. She had saved the lives of several of their comrades along the road from Gaza; that gave her worth in their eyes.
She moved up the beach, away from the sailors, sand crunching underfoot. She passed several inviting spots before choosing one screened by a spur of worn rock. The pool, a depression high up on the beach, away from the crash and hiss of the breakers, was fed by a brackish spring; it had a natural sandstone curb, and its bottom was easily visible through the crystalline water.
She stripped off her filthy shift and tossed it aside, enjoying the feel of the sun and wind on her naked flesh. Carefully, she slipped into the pool. The water, waist-deep and warm, had a wholesome feel that drove away the darkness of the past few days. She washed her hair, scrubbed her body, and shaved herself as best she could with her small razor. Afterward, wrapped in a feeling of cleanliness, she floated in the pool, her eyes closed.
"You're almost purring," a voice said, soft from exhaustion.
Far from being surprised, Jauharah opened an eye, smiling. Barca sat near the pool's edge. "Every time I turn around," she said, "I catch you watching me. Why?"
"Better I keep an eye on you than someone else."
"That's not an answer," she said, playfully splashing water over his foot. "At least, not an answer that would set a woman's heart to fluttering."
Barca rested his elbows on his knees, cradled his head in his hands. He tried to knuckle away an ache behind his eyes. "How soon can you move the wounded to the ship?" he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
Jauharah pursed her lips. "Some of them should not be moved, but if needs must, it can be done in two hours at most. Why?„
Barca exhaled. "We can do no more here. It's time we see to getting ourselves to safety before our escape can be blocked. I fear I've cut it too close. The Persians' probes are becoming too uniform, as if they have found a way around the hills and are trying to divert our attention. If we stay longer, Raphia will become our tomb."
"What of the Phoenicians?"
"I'm too exhausted to worry about them." He closed his eyes. Jauharah could see lines of concern etching his face. He had not slept more than two hours at a stretch since leaving Gaza; he led every ambush, sometimes two or three a day. From what she could tell he ate sparingly. He was eroding before her eyes, wearing away like a boulder in a raging river.
"Come, let me bathe you," she said. Her tone left no room for argument.
Barca stood, stripped off his armor and kilt, and drove his sheathed sword point-first into the sand. With a groan, he sank into the pool. Jauharah floated up behind him and laved water onto his shoulders and back. He closed his eyes, going limp in her care. Once his body was clean, Jauharah wet his hair and washed it with aromatic oil, massaging his scalp with gentle fingers. After she rinsed his hair, Jauharah urged him to lay back, his head resting on her breasts, as she deftly trimmed the wild edges of his beard. She finished, intertwining her body with his in the sun-warmed water.
"It's been years since a woman …" Barca trailed off. Jauharah said nothing, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair off his forehead. His brow furrowed. "This morning, as we ambushed the Persians, I had no rage, no fury. I felt," Barca chose his words carefully, "sorrow. For their loss, for what I had to do to them to insure your safety, and mine. What you do to me … what I feel is dangerous for a man in my position."
"What do you feel?"
Barca remained silent for a long while. Jauharah could tell he was engaged in something he rarely did. He was searching deep inside himself. Finally, he spoke. "There is a small voice inside my head that curses me for a fool, that chides me for trading my edge in battle for a few hours of pleasure. Before that night in Gaza, I lived on hatred, on rage, on a dark deed I thought unforgivable. Now …" Barca lapsed into silence, his brows knotted, his eyes turned inward.
"Do you regret that night in Gaza?" Jauharah said, the bitterness in her voice surprising even her. "I do not wish to be a burden to you, physically or mentally."
Barca silenced her with a kiss. "It is not you or our time together that I regret. It is my life before Gaza. Understand, I lived as a dead man. I breathed, and my heart beat and blood pumped. But I was only passing time until violence separated my body from my ka. I've wasted the last twenty years on regret. I don't plan to waste what time I have left."
Barca kissed her again with a tender passion; a long kiss accompanied by stroking fingers and caresses. Jauharah moaned and held him tight. It was not a furious ardor that drove their lovemaking, but a gentle, insistent ache inflamed by touch and the nearness of their bodies. For a time, both succeeded in forgetting the world around them.
After a while the Phoenician stirred. "We'd better be getting back," he said, glancing at the sun. It had passed its zenith, morning giving way to afternoon.
"If only all of this could pass us by," she sighed. "Just one day and night together without the pall of violence hanging over us is all I ask."
"Perhaps that day will come," Barca said. "But not today. Not now." He rose from the water and helped her out. Drop lets of moisture shimmered against her brown skin as she toweled off and slipped into her shift. She ran a comb through her hair. The sun would do the rest.
Meanwhile, Barca went about rearming. Jauharah watched in fascination as a metamorphosis occurred; a transformation. Kilt, sandals, greaves, corselet, each element of armor donned in its turn, as a mason sets individual stones in a wall. Finally, the carapace of bronze, so like the shell of a crab, that protected more than the flesh within — it camouflaged the vulnerability of the man who wore it. Barca glanced up, and Jauharah saw his transformation as more than physical. His eyes reflected the cold, unyielding strength of the bronze. In its embrace he would have no doubts, no concerns. His actions would be beneficial to his allies; swift and deadly to his foes. In that, Jauharah found a measure of comfort.
"Jauharah," Barca repeated. "Are you ready?"
She blinked, smiling. She had been so lost in thought that she did not realize he was speaking. "Yes." He nodded, and they set off together.
Gulls wheeled overhead, their mournful cries lost amid the crash and hiss of breakers. In the distance, Senmut and his sailors knocked the canting beams aside, floating the Atum in the surf. Their hurrahs were faint.
"Who is that?" Jauharah said, pointing at a figure sprinting toward them.
"Huy," Barca murmured.
The young soldier, his corselet dulled even in the brilliant afternoon sun, crunched through the damp sand, waves tugging at his ankles. He ran up the strand as if the Children of Anubis nipped at his heels. He slowed as he approached Barca. Huy was a tall lad, still in his teens, with a shock of black hair that defied any attempt to control. A gash across his jaw had scabbed over; one hand was bandaged, several fingers missing.
"What is it Huy?" Barca said.
The lad was out of breath. He gasped, clutching at his sore ribs. "It … It's … the Persians, lord! "
The Persian herald sat his horse like a man born there. Despite the heat, he wore trousers of wine-colored cloth tucked into calf-length boots. Over a sleeved tunic, the herald's armor gleamed in the sun, a jacket of triangular bronze scales, resembling the skin of a fish. A small shield of leather and wood hung from his saddle-bow, and — save for the long lance in his right hand — he appeared unarmed. Beneath the bronze lance head a white scarf fluttered in the breeze.
"Huy found you. Good," Callisthenes said as Barca and Jauharah walked up. "I think they wish to surrender. He keeps saying the same thing over and over."
"I bear a message for your commander," the herald repeated, his voice deep and rolling. He spoke Egyptian with a heavy accent.
Barca pushed through the crowd of Egyptians. "I am here."
"My master would speak with you, under the flag of truce. He awaits you on yonder road." With that, the horseman wheeled and rode off.
"Surrender," Barca grunted, shaking his head at Callisthenes.
"A man can dream, can he not?" the Greek said. "Anyway, what do you intend to do?"
"We're done here," Barca said, looking at the remnants of his men. "It's time to cut our losses and get out while we can. The Persians are toying with us."
"What do you suggest?" Callisthenes said.
"The Atum," Barca replied. "We can escape so long as the Phoenician triremes haven't marshaled and put to sea. Still, any withdrawal has to have cover. I will buy you and Jauharah enough time to get the wounded on board."
"Me?" Callisthenes said. "I'm no general, Barca. I …"
"This is not a task for a general, damn you! It's a task for a merchant! Use the skills you have at organization and make it so! Now, move!" He raised his voice so the Egyptians could hear. "We must make ready to be away within the hour. Take only those supplies we will need to make it to Pelusium; burn the rest." He thrust a hand at Callisthenes. "The Greek will command in my stead. Should I not return by sunset, set sail and make for Pelusium. Report all you have seen and done to whoever commands there. Understood?"
Muffled assent as the men scattered to make their preparations. Callisthenes glared at him, then turned and hustled down to the beach to warn Senmut. Jauharah lingered.
"Be careful," she whispered. Barca winked at her, nodding.
"I'll be the picture of care," he said. She touched his hand, then turned and followed Callisthenes. Barca watched her go. His face became expressionless, hard. For the time being, he put her out of his mind. The Phoenician turned and struck off in the direction the herald had indicated.
The afternoon heat was oppressive. Once beyond the ridge line, the air grew still; not even the gulls ventured inland. Barca stewed in his armor, basting in his own sweat. Cautiously, he followed the trail of the horseman. By instinct he marked the places where archers could hide; once, he imagined he saw the flash of sunlight on metal. He knew how the Persians in the gorge had felt this morning. There were men behind the rocks, he was sure of it. Barca approached the track leading down to the road as if an ambush lay behind the next overhang.
In the valley below, straddling the Way of Horns, the Persians had erected a pavilion. It was nothing fancy, Barca noticed, a campaign tent fly-rigged, its sides open in an effort to catch some hint of a breeze. The Phoenician rode an avalanche of loose gravel to the valley floor. The herald waited nearby, off his horse now, stroking the beast's withers.
"My master awaits you within," he said. "Do you speak Aramaic? "
"Yes."
Barca walked to the edge of the pavilion. A man sat inside on a jumble of plush rugs, a tray with dates and wine at his elbow. The fellow was young, far younger than Barca imagined a Persian commander should be, and dark eyed, with features sharpened on the whetstone of curiosity. He wore a simple soldier's corselet of sweat-stained linen and scarlet trousers, embroidered with gold thread, tucked into leather boots. A tangled skein of black hair hung nearly to his shoulders.
"Your fame precedes you, Hasdrabal Barca," he said. "I am Darius, son of Hystapes, arshtibara of King Cambyses and commander of the vanguard. Please, sit and join me for some refreshment."
Barca sat cross-legged opposite of Darius, his sword across his knees. He helped himself to a handful of dates and a goblet of wine. "I know you haven't called me here just to exchange pleasantries. What do you want?"
Darius ran his fingers through his well-groomed beard, an unconscious gesture. Thanes did not lie when he called you blunt, Phoenician. You are right, this is more than a chance to share a cup and a jest. You and those who follow you are men of honor and courage. I hate to see such as yourselves wasted in this fool's errand. Please, I beg of you, stand down and let us pass."
"I am surprised a man who values honor as you do would consort with the likes of Phanes," Barca said.
Darius grimaced. "It was not by choice, I assure you. My king finds him to be a useful asset. Personally, I find the Greek repellent."
"At least in that we agree. If I concede the road to you, Darius, what will you give to me in return?"
"Your life, and the lives of those who follow you," the Persian said.
Barca laughed, draining his goblet and pouring himself another. "You say that like a man who believes he has control over my fate. Do not make the same mistake so many have before you."
Darius frowned. "What do you want, then?"
Barca did not get the sense that Darius played a game with him. The young man was passionate in his plea, his concern genuine. "I have a ship in Raphia. Give me one day to get my people on board."
"And where will you go? Pelusium?"
"Does it matter? The road will be open to you."
Darius sighed. "Unfortunately, it does matter. I would be remiss in my obligations to my king if I allowed you to rejoin the fight at Pelusium. You are too valuable …"
"You realize," Barca cut him off, his voice dangerous, "I could kill you where you sit?"
Darius met his stare openly, unflinching. "I believe you could," he said. "But my archers would cut you down like a stag in flight before you took two steps. Afterward, my successor would fall upon Raphia like the wrath of God, and if any of your men lived to see Egypt again, it would be as a slave chained to the oar of a Persian galley."
"We've reached an impasse, then," Barca said. "You want the road, which I'm willing to concede, but you're unwilling to suffer my price for it. If you Persians are so sure of your superiority, what difference will it make if I fall at Raphia or at Pelusium?"
"Your death is not the bone of contention, it's your life," Darius said. "You have the uncanny ability to inspire men to their utmost; to make them desire to emulate you. You will fight like a demon, here or at Pelusium, and those men with you will be inspired to the same level of savagery. Can you understand my position? I would rather face a few hundred men emboldened by you than a few thousand.
"But, I am not without a sense of fair play," Darius continued. "We outnumber you so many times over that it fades into the realm of the absurd. That said, I am willing to give you a fighting chance. A head start, if you will."
"I'm listening," Barca said, tentatively.
"I give you one hour," Darius said.
"One hour?"
"Yes. From the time you leave my camp you have one hour to get as many of your men aboard as you can. After one hour, my horsemen attack. Is this acceptable?"
Barca snarled. "This is your sense of fair play? It took nearly an hour to arrive at this spot! "
"We're not haggling in the markets of Tyre, Phoenician. This is a battlefield, and mine is the upper hand. How many men will you rescue if I order an immediate attack? My guess, not many. At least this way you have some kind of chance."
The Phoenician's brow furrowed, calculating. "How do I know you'll remain true to your word?"
"I swear it on my honor," Darius replied.
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 com mand 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 area 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, sit!" 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.
From the ridge line, Persian archers loosed a hail of death on Raphia. As the first arrows thudded around him, Barca braced himself for an impact, for the feel of a razored tip slicing through flesh to shatter the bone beneath. The Phoenician scrambled for cover. He flattened himself against the seaward wall of a small fishing shack, listening to the crack of bronzeheads on wood. He thrust aside a veil of netting and peered through the door, through the round window cut into the back wall. Soldiers had cleared the trail and moved into the upper reaches of the village as their brothers lobbed fusillades over their heads. Barca turned back to face the sea.
Beyond the strand the Atum backed water, its prow rising and falling on the swells. Senmut's voice could be heard as he howled orders and curses. On the stern, he could see a wall of helpless faces, Jauharah and Callisthenes among them. Suddenly, the drumming of arrows slowed. Barca risked a glance around the corner of the shack. On the ridge line, the bowmen tossed their empty quivers aside and were clawing for another.
The lull was the opening Barca needed.
The Phoenician pushed away from the shack and hurtled for the ship. Without pause, he unbuckled his cuirass and shrugged out of the heavy carapace, hurling it aside as he flung himself into the sea. With powerful strokes he swam through the breaking surf, vanishing under water then reappearing. He gasped for breath. His chest ached; his limbs felt leaden as he forced muscle and sinew into action. Salt spray burned his eyes and reminded him of every scratch and cut he had accumulated over the last week. He glanced up. A rope snaked down from the stern of the Atum. The frayed end lay just out of reach. Barca drew on his dwindling reserves of stamina, propelling himself forward with one last burst of speed. His fingers brushed the rope.
"He's got it! " He heard Jauharah's voice as she yelled to the Egyptians. "Pull!"
Soldiers and sailors hauled the rope inboard. Barca clambered up the side of the ship. Shouts of triumph erupted around him as he grabbed the rail and pulled himself over.
"Thank the gods! " Jauharah said, helping him to his feet. Barca stood on shaky legs. He turned to face the dwindling shoreline. Phanes waded into the surf, striking the water with his sword.
"How does it feel? You son of a bitch, how does it feel?" Barca clutched the railing white-knuckle tight.
"I want to finish this, Barca! "
The Phoenician laughed recklessly. "Then hurry to Pelusium! I'll meet you there! "