Pelusium guarded the door to Egypt.
In ancient times, Egypt's boundaries extended into the heart of Palestine, to the very banks of the Euphrates River itself. Inside this sphere every king, prince, or potentate owed his position to the whim of Pharaoh; to maintain this goodwill, yearly tributes were sent to Memphis, to Thebes. Failure to tithe properly, or not at all, met with swift reprisal. Inevitably, Egypt entered periods of decline where these foreign rulers could reassert their independence. Wars flared up, trade ceased, and common men suffered for the ambitions of their liege. With the return of vigorous pharaohs, the violence would subside; order would rise from the ashes of chaos. It was a cycle as perennial as the rise and fall of the Nile.
Barca sat on the crest of a hill, one of three anchoring the Egyptian position, and watched the sun rise. He ate a light breakfast of day-old bread and grilled fish, washing it down with a crock of beer. Earlier, scouts had reported that the main body of the Persian army had crossed the desert and were approaching. Finally, three weeks of waiting, of counting the hours until battle, were at an end.
On the morning the Atum put in to Pelusium, three weeks past, Barca was made aware of Nebmaatra's promotion. He saw nothing amiss in it. The Egyptian was a capable man, unaffected by the in-fighting that was the hallmark of the nobility. There were worse men he could serve. Barca sought him out and briefed him on everything that had happened: their arrival in Gaza, Qainu's duplicity, the Bedouin attack, the retreat to Raphia, his encounter with Darius, their escape.
"This Darius is a different sort of Persian," Barca told him. "Straight as an arrow and as concerned with truth as a servant of Lady Ma'at."
"Sounds as though you admire him," Nebmaatra said.
Barca frowned. "I do, and that is what bothers me."
"How is that?"
"It doesn't sit well with me to admire a man I may have to kill."
Around him, on the hill Barca occupied, the ruins of a watch tower thrust like dead fingers from the thin soil. Scrub brush grew along the crumbling wall of stone; a gnarled tamarisk served as home to a family of sparrows who darted and whirled in the morning air, cursing Barca in their shrill tongue. Studying the land, he could see why Nebmaatra chose this particular spot to meet the Persians. The landscape formed a natural hourglass. To the north, on Barca's left hand, the rocky coastline looked as though a titan had taken a deep bite out of it. The indentation came within a mile of Barca's position. South, the land became a tangled, impassable marsh. Between the two extremes lay a gently sloping plain of orchards and fields, a vision of pastoral bliss.
The Way of Horus came straight out of the east, a whitish scar skirting the arms of Mt. Casius and the foul waters of Lake Serbonis. This narrow spit of dry, passable land would funnel the Persians down into the fortified Egyptian position. Its closeness would negate their superior numbers, and the natural obstacles of marsh and sea would seal the field against flanking maneuvers.
Nebmaatra wasted no time in preparing for the Persians. Under his firm hand, soldiers were organized into workgangs and ordered to dig shallow trenches across the plain — trenches deep enough to snap the delicate leg of a horse. Others were instructed to make obstacles. The general gave his overseers latitude and encouraged creativity. He wanted anything they could think of, any obstacle that would disrupt a charge of cavalry. Barca grinned. Nebmaatra's overseers proved a cunning lot. There were palm trunks lashed together upright in groups of three; mounds of discarded stone and mud brick; huge sycamore roots grubbed from the marshes; fields of sharpened stakes.
"Won't this defeat our own chariot corps?" Callisthenes had asked him the day before as they took their turn among the workers. Sweat poured down the Greek's face. He leaned on his mattock, accepting a skin of water from a young boy. Barca had seen little of Callisthenes since their return, their duties keeping them separate and exhausted. Still, he looked even thinner since Gaza.
"Yes. Nebmaatra's dismantling the chariots and using their crews as irregular infantry."
"You know what worries me? Those Persians in Raphia were rather fond of their bows. What if they decide just to stand beyond our reach and pepper us with shafts? Are we prepared for that?"
Barca paused in his digging and glanced at the thin clouds scudding across the blue vaulted sky. "As prepared as we can be. It wasn't chance alone that drove us to choose Pelusium," he said cryptically.
Barca finished off his breakfast as a troop of workmen ascended the path to the crest of the hill, chattering among themselves. They were sent to scour the ruins for usable stone. Make-work, since the field below was already choked with debris. Still, Nebmaatra wanted the men to stay active. It gave them less time to brood over the coming battle.
"General Barca," one of them said, spotting him. He was a short, dark-skinned young man with a round face. "Are we to fight soon, or should we give up building obstacles and build homes instead? This waiting…"
"Look there, boy," Barca said, rising and pointing east.
The workers shaded their eyes. "I don't see anything, sir. I …" the young man's voice caught in his throat. "Lord Amon have mercy!"
Columns of dust rose from the Way of Horns, cloaking the horizon like clouds of an immense storm. From its heart, they could discern the lightning flash of armor. The men glanced down at the ground, shock and disbelief on their faces. Barca could feel it too, faint but unmistakable, a vibration rising up through the soles of his sandals.
The measured tread of eighty thousand men.
"What do we do, sir?" The young man took a step back, fear driving his voice up an octave.
"Stay sharp and keep your wits about you," Barca said. "Treat this day as any other. Eat when you normally eat; drink when you normally drink. Keep yourself busy, as inaction quickly turns to fear. It will take them time to prepare, just as it has taken us time. We'll see nothing of them today."
Barca turned and descended the western face of the hill, following the well-worn trail down to the sprawling Egyptian camp. The waiting was nearly over …
The camp buzzed with activity. Rumors of the Persian advance rustled from regiment to regiment, company to company. A hundred thousand men, some said. Maybe more. Someone heard that the Son of Ra, in his infinite wisdom, had ordered the mercenaries to strike before the Persians could entrench. Wrong, another countered, the army would pull back. Phoenician sails had been spotted moving up the coast, intent on landing an invasion force on their flank. Men shivered in fear despite the morning sun.
Jauharah stood in the doorway of the House of Life, that vast complex of scribes, priests, and physicians forming the bureaucratic spine of the Egyptian war machine. From here, every asset and liability was accounted for and noted on endless scrolls of papyrus, on pottery shards, on waxed boards. Shrines to the gods were maintained, and offerings made by priest and layman, alike. For the moment, Jauharah was attached to the Overseer of the Horse for the regiment of Amon. Her task was keeping track of the regiment's arrows.
Behind her, Jauharah could hear Ladice addressing her charges.
"Maintain your composure at all times," she said. "Most of our soldiers are children of peace. They have never fought in battle. Some will look to their leaders for guidance; others will look to us. If we panic, they panic."
The Lady of Cyrene was an enigma. She had used her influence to usurp control of the House of Life from the high priests, knowing those men would lose their focus and resume their petty bickering. It was a breach of protocol that worked out to the army's advantage as she proved herself a relentless organizer.
"Any questions?" Ladice said. After a moment's pause, she dismissed the lesser priests, the scribes, and their apprentices. These last would serve as runners between the individual commanders, relaying messages and orders.
Jauharah snagged a young apprentice by the arm. The boy stared at her, his eyes glassy with excitement and fear. She pressed a folded square of papyrus into his hand. "See that General Barca gets this." The boy nodded and rushed off.
"Jauharah." Ladice approached. "I wanted to talk to you for a moment."
Jauharah bowed. "I am at your service, lady."
Ladice smiled. "I heard your tale from Nebmaatra. I find it extraordinary that you learned the healer's art simply from reading ancient texts. You have a gift for it, I think." Ladice had a sadness about her, a heartache she wore like a badge of honor. "It would seem Memphis was unlucky for the both of us. You served the family of Idu?"
"Yes," Jauharah replied. "As their slave." A shadow of anguish passed over the Lady of Cyrene's face. Before she could speak, Jauharah set her at ease with a smile. "Do not pity me, lady. My life then wasn't the terror of whips and chains you imagine it to be. I didn't row a galley or work in the fields. I helped raise a family, aided in the birth of two daughters, taught my native tongue, and learned the secret of writing. I lived easier than most freeborn women."
"And it was all taken from you by my countrymen," Ladice said, quietly. She closed her eyes. "We have caused more grief in Egypt than joy, I fear."
"For every Greek whose wickedness is trumpeted to the heavens, there are a dozen more that live lives of noble obscurity. It would be foolish, I think, to judge a whole people by the actions of a few vile souls. Foolish as well as misguiding."
"How do you forgive so easily?"
"I don't, lady. I only place the blame where it belongs. I don't forgive the men who shattered my life, and neither do I hold you accountable for their actions because you happen to be Greek."
Ladice sighed. "Your soul is older and wiser than mine, Jauharah. I want you here tomorrow, in the surgeon's tent. I think your skills would be better utilized removing arrows instead of inventorying them." Jauharah started to reply, but Ladice put a hand on her arm and leaned close. "When men decide to make war, it is the women who are left to pick up the pieces."
"I understand," Jauharah said. Ladice nodded and rushed off to attend to her duties. Jauharah watched her go. The Lady of Cyrene gave voice to something she had felt during the battle at Memphis and, later, while stitching the wounded in Raphia. In the aftermath of fighting, a woman's touch was invaluable.
By their very nature women were nurturers. In times of peace it meant they were hearth-warmers, child-rearers, possessed of a practical magic men found inscrutable. In times of war, that selfsame magic could be used to soothe the sick and heal the wounded; it flowed through a woman's fingertips to strengthen hearts and souls; it carried in their voices, in the soft-spoken reassurances that everything would be better. Ladice was right. Men would fight and men would die, but it was the women who would make their riven bodies whole again.
Lost in thought, Jauharah wandered out through a flap in the back of the pavilion. A copse of sycamores and tamarisks grew at the rear of the House of Life, casting welcome shade over the sun-browned grass. A shallow ditch scarred the ground, its sides heaped with freshly turned earth. The light breeze carried the smell of wild mint. It was hard to believe that, in a matter of hours, a river of blood would flow through that ditch while mounds of severed limbs would cover the grass, a grim monument to the lords of violence.
A sob brought Jauharah up short. She glanced around. There, hidden in the shadow of an ancient sycamore, a figure sat alone. She moved closer.
It was Callisthenes.
He sat with his legs drawn up before him, his arms on his knees, oblivious to the world around him. He stared at his hands. They were shaking. "I can't do it," the Greek said, his voice hoarse. "I can't do it."
Jauharah edged closer. Callisthenes glanced up. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and the look in them was one of unreasoning terror.
"I can't do it," he repeated.
"What?" Jauharah frowned. "What can't you do?"
"I can't kill again. It's not in me, I think," Callisthenes said. He clenched his hands to stop the tremors. "As a child, I dreamed of fighting at the left hand of Ajax, beneath the walls of Ilium. Odysseus was my mentor; Achilles, my god. Patroclus. Paris. Agamemnon. These were the names of my personal pantheon. I worshiped glory and battle." Callisthenes grunted, rubbing his hands together. "Look at me now. Every time battle is offered, my knees go weak and my blood turns to ice … a man in name only."
Jauharah sat beside him. "You want to know a secret, Callisthenes? Something only women understand? A man is not measured by the lives he has taken, rather by the lives he has preserved. Your actions at Memphis, Gaza, and Raphia speak louder than any words. You are, barring none, one of the bravest men I have ever known — and it's precisely because of your concern for life. You have to do what you think is right, Callisthenes, not what others believe is right for you. If fighting is not for you, then you can still help us here, in the House of Life."
"With the women! " the Greek said bitterly.
"There are men here, too. Men equally as brave as the soldiers in the field," Jauharah said. "Some men are put on this earth to preserve life; others to take it. You are one of the rare few whose sense of compassion overrides your desire to kill. Yours is a rare heart, Callisthenes. Trust it. It will not lead you astray."
Callisthenes looked at her, a newfound respect in his eyes. "It's little wonder Barca has changed. For a time I dismissed you as nothing more than his way of atoning for the past. I can see I was mistaken." He grasped her hand. Jauharah could feel him shaking. He looked down, cleared his throat. "My people do not hold women in high regard, save as a way to propagate the future. We do not accord them the independence they deserve. I swear to you, Jauharah, should I live through this, I will devote my remaining days to righting this wrong."
Jauharah smiled. "I know you will, Callisthenes. I know you will. For now, though, let's deal with today. Would you like to aid us here?"
Callisthenes sat for a long time, perfectly still, his eyes closed as he searched the deepest recesses of his heart. Finally, he stood. He helped Jauharah to her feet. "Lady," the Greek said. "I am honored by your invitation, but my heart tells me my place is with the men of Naucratis."
Barca caught Nebmaatra coming out of his tent, a roll of papyrus tucked under one arm. The Egyptian's face creased in a mirthless smile. "News travels swiftly," he said. "I've sent word to each regimental commander. I want campaign discipline maintained. If the men go off to empty their bowels, they had best keep their weapons handy."
Barca nodded. "It would be wise to send patrols around the marshes, just in case they think to flank us from that direction."
"We'll see to that after we brief Pharaoh. Come." The Phoenician fell in beside Nebmaatra.
Barca had not seen Psammetichus since the latter's arrival a few days past. As Tjemu would say, Pharaoh knew the value of a good entrance; he made his with all the pomp and glitter of a conquering king. Preceded by the gods of Egypt and a swarm of shaven-headed priests, Psammetichus reviewed the troops from the back of his chariot. In his golden-scaled corselet and blue war crown, the young monarch looked every inch his father's son. But looks could deceive.
"Have you talked with Pharaoh?"
"Once," Nebmaatra replied. "When he informed me of his desire to command the center, behind his Calasirians and the regiment of Amon."
"You explained to him that he must stand firm, that Cambyses will doubtless hurl the Immortals against the center in an effort to split the line?"
Nebmaatra nodded. "He assured me he would hold the line together."
"You trust him?" Barca knew the young Pharaoh had never commanded as much as a raiding party, much less the core of a professional army. The Phoenician had seen his share of recruits freeze when the sounds and smells hit them for the first time. He expected no less from Psammetichus.
Nebmaatra glanced sidelong at the Phoenician. "He is Pharaoh. What choice do I have? I must admit, though, it warmed my heart to see him go against Ujahorresnet's advice."
Barca's head snapped around, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Mother of whores!" He had seen the old man in the entourage and assumed he was there in his capacity as lady Neith's high priest. "He's Pharaoh's new advisor?"
Nebmaatra nodded. "Not just advisor. Pharaoh named him Overseer of the High Sea Fleet, Fan-bearer on the King's Right Hand, a whole host of titles. Apparently, they have quite a rapport. I suggested Pharaoh award you the Gold of Valor for your deeds at Gaza, but Ujahorresnet convinced him not to. He said it would not look proper to bestow Egypt's highest military honor for a mere skirmish."
"I should have killed that meddlesome bastard in Memphis!" Barca said, his teeth grinding in anger. "Do not trust him, Nebmaatra! If an order springs from his lips, question it, if not openly then in your own mind. He does not have Egypt's best interests at heart."
Nebmaatra's brow furrowed. "How do you know? Thus far, he has …"
"I know!" Barca snarled, and would say no more.
A subaltern of the Calasirians ushered them into Pharaoh's presence. He occupied a temporary throne room, an understatement in simplicity walled in pure white linen that diffused the morning sunlight. The golden throne itself rested on a dais of ebony wood inlaid with scenes of Pharaoh smiting his enemies. Beside the throne, Khasekhem, Overseer of Scribes, sat cross-legged on the ground, his palette and pens prepared. Ujahorresnet, resplendent in his robes of office, stood at Pharaoh's right hand. Barca stared at the old man with undisguised contempt.
I have heard the Persians have been sighted moving into position. When do you expect an attack?" Psammetichus said.
"Not before midmorning tomorrow, at the earliest."
"Are we prepared, Nebmaatra? Tell me I have not misplaced my trust in you?"
Nebmaatra unrolled his papyrus, revealing a hastily sketched map. He spread it on the dais at Pharaoh's feet. "The regiment of Amon and the Calasirians will hold the center, along this height. To their left will be the regiments of Ptah and Sekhmet, to their right, Osiris and Bast. Barca will command the left flank from the seaward hill. The mercenary units will form on him: the Medjay, the Greek regiment, the Libyans and the Nubians. I will command the right. With me will be the regiments of Khonsu, Anubis, Horns, and Neith. That's twenty-five thousand men massed in the center flanked by roughly twenty thousand apiece. Sixty-five thousand men against eighty thousand. We are as prepared as we can be, Pharaoh."
"Outnumbered as we are, do we stand even the slightest chance?" Pharaoh asked, despair thick in his voice. He looked from Nebmaatra to Barca. The Phoenician could barely recognize him as the laughing young lion of Sais. His once vigorous face seemed dissipated; the skin stretched too tight over the bone. Dark circles ringed his eyes.
Barca nodded, glancing down at the map. "We have the advantage of position and, by the will of the gods, weather. If our courage holds, victory will be well within our grasp."
"Still," Ujahorresnet spoke up for the first time, "would it not be wise to prepare a contingency plan for retreat should we be overwhelmed?"
"You speak what is in my mind, good Ujahorresnet. What about it? How will we fall back should the occasion arise?"
Nebmaatra cleared his throat. "I have not given it much thought, Majesty."
Barca's anger exploded. "Let the first blows fall before you plan our surrender! Merciful Ba'al! Why not order us to fall on our swords and get it over with?"
Psammetichus' eyes flashed dangerously. "Guard your tongue, Phoenician! You may have spoken freely around my father, but I am not Ahmose! "
"Retreat is not an option! " Barca hissed through clenched teeth. "Do either of you have the slightest idea what it is we fight for here? Well, by the gods, I'll tell you! Egypt's survival! This is the boundary stone, the line the Persians must not cross! No contingency plans! No retreats! If we dwell on those, we give our courage an option to fail, and that we cannot do! If we — we! — do not stop Cambyses here. . Barca trailed off.
"I understand," Pharaoh said, his frame deflating, his anger leeched away by the grim realization of Barca's words. "I swore to my father on his deathbed that I would not fail Egypt, and I swear it to you now. If I desert Egypt in her hour of need, may I be stricken dead and my body left unburied and unmourned." Psammetichus dismissed them with a wave. "Go, both of you. Go and see to my army."
Barca and Nebmaatra bowed and retraced their steps. Outside, in the golden sunlight, Barca shook his head. "He's right. He's not his father."
"He may be untried, but Psammetichus has heart, and heart has won many a battle on its own," Nebmaatra said. "See to your men." The Egyptian turned and headed for his command tents, where already the regimental leaders had mustered.
Barca was unconvinced. Oath or no oath, once the fighting got thick and the blood spattered Pharaoh like rain; his lack of experience would show. The Phoenician would feel better if Psammetichus bowed out of the fray and watched it from the safety of camp. At least there if his courage flagged, it would not infect the men like a plague.
A scribe's apprentice, a boy of perhaps twelve, rushed up to the Phoenician and handed him a square of papyrus. Barca eyed the boy as he ran off again, then opened the note. It was written in Jauharah's firm hand:
I must see you. Come when you can.
Below that were directions leading south and west of the Egyptian camp. Barca frowned.
The spot the Persians chose for their encampment lay threequarters of a mile from the base of the Egyptian hillocks. Priestly Magi made the proper sacrifices and libations; reconnaissance units scouted between the marshes and the sea; servants and slaves set about erecting the royal pavilion along the banks of a creek, in the shade of a palm grove. The son of Cyrus did not travel as another man would, with the bare essentials only. All the luxuries of court accompanied him, from the ladies of the apadana to the children of his noble families to an entourage of eunuchs, governesses, cooks, bakers, weavers, orderlies … an army to service an army, and all of it centered upon the person of the King.
As morning faded to midday, individual marshaling salients were staked out and an order of battle decided. Soon after, a summons came from the King's pavilion, and his generals rushed to heed his call.
A forest of carved cedar poles turned the interior of the King's pavilion into a fragrant orchard. Around the ivory and gilded wood campaign throne, a legion of slaves and servants waited on the King, seeing to his every whim as if it were the will of blessed Ahuramazda. Indeed, perhaps it was. At the very least, Cambyses of Persia considered himself a demigod. His father had rejected the idea. "In Egypt, the King may be divine, but in Persia, we are but tools of the divine," Cyrus was wont to say. Cambyses scoffed at that. He was the pinnacle of justice, the fountainhead of law, with the power of life and death over every living thing under his rule. Could a mere mortal make such a claim?
Heavy-lidded eyes gave the King an indolent look that matched his appetite for pleasures — both of the flesh and of the cup. His rugged frame and falcate nose may have marked him as the son of Cyrus, but there all similarity ceased. To live in the shadow of a man who had conquered much of the world had bred in Cambyses a certain depravity: if he could not match Cyrus on the field, he would match him at the banquet board and in the bed chamber.
Cambyses dismissed his servants with the slightest of gestures as his inner circle of generals and councillors filed in. Among these, Prexaspes held sway. He was a cunning old Mede with the face of a fox and eyes colder than a viper's. The Magus Ariarathes followed, wrapped in the self-righteous fervor of a follower of the one true god, Ahuramazda. Darius came next, moving with the self-assurance of a man who wore the truth like armor. Phanes entered behind Darius, the Greek's manner at once beautiful and deadly, like the play of lightning in a summer storm. Last came Gobartes, the envoy, his face as unreadable as a wax mask.
After displaying the appropriate level of veneration to the throne, couches were brought in and wine served, a cool aromatic vintage from the King's own stores. Despite their relaxed postures, tension clouded the air. His Majesty was in a dark mood, and men had been known to vanish during his bouts of melancholy.
"Well?" the King said.
Prexaspes spoke, his voice low and controlled. "Based on the reconnaissance, we face nine regiments of Egyptian troops and four of mercenaries. Under seventy thousand men. They have fortified the hillocks directly in front of us, and the field is strewn with all manner of debris. We cannot use cavalry, but neither can they make use of their chariot corps. If our esteemed Gobartes is correct, they are led by Nebmaatra, an able leader, but unimaginative."
"What Nebmaatra may lack, Barca makes up for a thousand times over," Phanes said, staring into the depths of his wine.
"Forgive me if I do not share your admiration for this Phoenician," Prexaspes said, his lips twisted into a sneer. "He is one man amid thousands. He will reign supreme in his little corner of the field, but beyond that …" The Mede made a negligent wave.
Before Phanes could voice the angry retort that formed on his lips, Darius stepped in. "You are wise, Prexaspes, and like a father to me, but I am forced to agree with the Greek in this matter. I have talked with this Phoenician. His courage is infectious. It will spread from man to man until it engulfs the whole of their army, and in the grip of this glorious fever, they will fight with redoubled effort. He is beyond doubt Pharaoh's finest asset."
Cambyses shifted on his throne. "And what of Psammetichus?"
All eyes swiveled to look at Gobartes. The envoy swallowed. "He is not cut from the same cloth as his father. Psammetichus is a weak ruler, Majesty. Easily swayed by the advice of his nobles."
The King's eyes narrowed. "Men say the same of me," he said, his voice deadly calm. "They say that perhaps my brother, Bardiya, would make a more suitable king. Do you believe that, Gobartes?"
Sweat popped out on the envoy's forehead. He walked a razor-thin line. One misstep, one wrong inflection and his life would be forfeit. "You are the soul of Persia, Majesty. You are her fire, her conscience, her righteousness. With respect, I ask you: can the body live without the soul?"
Cambyses said nothing, his eyes riveted on the trembling envoy. Gobartes averted his gaze out of deference and fear. Finally, the King said, "You speak what is in my own mind, Gobartes, and you say it with a honeyed tongue." Gobartes breathed a sigh of relief. Cambyses continued, "Ariarathes, what do my brother gods say?"
The Magus bowed. "I have studied the heart of the Sacred Flame and heard the blessed voice of Ahuramazda. No matter what befalls, the enemy must be engaged at dawn. The omens will not be as auspicious for many weeks to come."
Cambyses nodded, a thin smile warping his features. "It is my wish to behold the wonders of Memphis. So I charge you, my generals, with the task of humbling this rabble of artisans and stone masons. Prexaspes will command the left wing; Darius the right. I personally will oversee the center. My Immortals will form the core, with the Median and Babylonian infantry. The remainder, you may divide amongst yourselves."
Darius and Prexaspes bowed in acknowledgment.
"What of me, Majesty?" Phanes said. He had hoped for a command; indeed, Cambyses had promised him one at the outset.
"What of you …" Cambyses said, stroking his chin. "You, I charge with another task. You will command the Ionian and Carian mercenaries, and it will be your responsibility to hunt down and neutralize the Phoenician, whether he is on the left, right, or in the center. Find him and kill him. That is your reward for serving me."
A malign light glowed in Phanes' eyes as his lips peeled back in a bestial snarl. The Greek nodded.
"Remember," the King said, sweeping them with a withering glance. "When we succeed, Egypt's riches will be yours to share. But, if you fail, if my wishes are not met or exceeded by dusk tomorrow, then not even the icy chill of the Zagros Mountains will cool my wrath! "
It was late afternoon by the time Barca was able to pry himself away from the preparations for the coming battle. He had briefed his sub-commanders, the leaders of the mercenary units, on how they were to deploy; he saw to the construction of an angled hedge of wooden stakes at the base of the three hills, a loose palisade that would slow a Persian charge up those inclines. Finally, he gave orders for sentries to be posted and rotated every three hours, and went off in search of Jauharah.
The message from her had been cryptic, its brevity worrisome. The Phoenician wondered what she had discovered. What could require this level of secrecy? Fearing for her safety, Barca picked up his pace and headed for the southwestern edge of camp. During the past three weeks, he had seen very little of Jauharah. Her duties in the House of Life had taken the bulk of her time, as preparing the field had taken his. Those few moments they had spent together left him sullen, aching.
"You love her," Tjemu pointed out one evening as they shared a meal. His tone was blunt, no-nonsense. Barca knew instantly that discussing Jauharah had been a mistake.
"Don't be ridiculous," the Phoenician had replied. "I said I admired her for her strength. That's a far cry from professing my love." His response, though, lacked conviction, and Tjemu saw through it as easily as he saw the changes in his old captain. Ithobaal would have been proud. The Libyan tore a chunk of bread off the loaf and dipped it into the stew pot.
"What's so ridiculous about it?" he said, popping the bread into his mouth. "She's a fine girl. Reminds me of the woman I left behind at Siwa. She was strong, too. Strong and stubborn." Tjemu chuckled. "She could do this thing with her hips. ."
"Never mind," Barca growled. "Forget I said anything."
Barca threaded his way through the camp in silence, barely acknowledging the greetings and cheers he received from soldier and servant, alike. Stories of his many battles were spreading throughout the Egyptian army, no doubt started by his Medjay, becoming more grandiose with each telling. Before long, he will have fought the Greeks at Memphis single-handedly before ascending into the heavens on the great solar barque of Ra to do battle with the serpent Apophis. The Phoenician hated such tales. They made the commonplace mythic and did a disservice to those who fought and died at his side. They deserved the accolades, not him.
His mind returned to Jauharah. Was it love he felt for her? He tried to recall how he had felt for Neferu, so many years ago. Usually a wave of anger preceded such thoughts. Not anymore. Barca remembered her with a detached clarity. Neferu had been a gorgeous young woman, her body firm and lush, her face that of a goddess carved in stone. She had known, too, the effect her body had on men. They flocked around her, desperate to capture her attention. She encouraged their behavior by wearing gauzy linens and jewelry designed to accentuate her flaring hips and shapely legs. Beyond the physical, Barca could not remember one thing about her personality that he might have found endearing. She was shrill, opinionated, spoiled. A girl masquerading as a woman. He had loved Neferu as a miser loves his gold, an object to be coveted and shuttered away.
Not so with Jauharah. Oh, there were similarities in the way her body fired his passions, but even the passion itself seemed different. Cleaner. Stronger. Were they never to touch, Barca would feel contentment in sitting at her side, talking, listening, laughing. There was an intelligence in Jauharah that he could not remember seeing in Neferu; a selfpossession he found more arousing than the roundest of hips or softest of breasts. Perhaps Tjemu was right.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Barca found his destination. It lay a bowshot beyond the Egyptian camp, where the tough scrub grass gave way to the sand and rock of the desert. It was a squat building fronted by a quartet of columns. A leather curtain hung in the doorway. The place had the look of an old chapel, but to what god or goddess it belonged, Barca did not know; wind and sand and the passage of time had eroded any identifying symbols.
Barca ascended the stairs and twitched aside the makeshift door. Murky sunlight sifted through ruptures in the roof. The air was cool and still, scented with jasmine. Fire had gutted the chapel at some point in its past. All that remained were the soot-blackened walls and columns. Someone had brought furniture here: a small table, a bed thick with pillows, oil lamps for when darkness fell. Movement on the bed exposed a slash of brown thigh. Barca looked closer.
It was Jauharah, asleep. She lay beneath a thin linen coverlet, her chest rising and falling with every measured breath. One arm lay across her stomach; the other pillowed her head. Barca slipped out of his armor, leaving it by the door. His sword he placed on the table, the hilt in easy reach. He knelt by the side of the bed. A finger of golden light played across Jauharah's features. Her face seemed so serene; her moist lips parted slightly. Barca leaned down and kissed her.
Jauharah opened her eyes and smiled. "You're late," she whispered.
"I came as quickly as I could," he replied, cupping her breast. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Her body stretched and twisted beneath the thin coverlet.
"Does that mean you'll roll over now and go to sleep?"
Barca grinned and lifted the coverlet away from her body. He ducked his head, his lips and tongue finding her hardening nipple. Jauharah's soft laughter turned to moans of pleasure as she drew him into bed.
Afternoon faded to evening. Stars flared overhead, barely visible through the gathering clouds. Night sounds trickled past the crude door: insects, the mournful howl of a jackal, the rustle of sand on stone.
Sweat cooled on their bodies. Jauharah lay on her stomach, her arms pillowing her head. Barca stretched his body alongside hers. His fingers traced meaningless designs on the moist flesh of her upper thighs, over her buttocks, up her spine. He could feel the places where her soft skin gave way to ridges of scar tissue — reminders of her more brutal masters.
"How did you find this place?" Barca asked.
"Luck, I think," Jauharah said, her voice a low purr. "I overheard an old woman from Pelusium talking about it. She was a priestess here when it was a temple to Hathor."
Barca chuckled. "Hathor? The cow goddess?"
Jauharah shifted, snuggling closer to him. "She's more than a cow goddess. She's the patron of women, the goddess of love and joy, of song and dance. She has a darker side, too. When enraged, she can be as vicious as the lion-goddess Sekhmet."
"The secret heart of women. We could use the blessings of Sekhmet in the coming. ." Barca's voice died away.
"What's wrong?"
Barca could feel her eyes on him; his hand reached out and stroked her cheek. "A day and a night without the pall of violence hanging over us," he said. "Isn't that what you wanted? Tonight, I'm not a warrior or a general. I'm just a man." Barca felt a tear roll down from the corner of her eye.
"I'm scared, Hasdrabal," Jauharah whispered, laying her head on his chest.
"I know. I am too."
"You are?"
"Yes. Is that so hard to believe?"
Not to me. You're not the same man you once were. The anger …
Barca kissed her forehead. "The anger is gone. That's part of what scares me. Once, I used rage as a weapon. Now, without it, I feel naked and defenseless. All I have is hope, and hope is useless in battle." Barca cradled her close, feeling the warmth of her body. "For the first time in my life," he whispered, "I don't want to die."