Dawn broke gray and wet over Pelusium. A chill north wind drove thick clouds inland from the sea. Fat droplets of rain spattered the ground from the coast to the desert's edge. Trumpets blared in the Egyptian camp, and men who had slept uneasily stirred and went about their morning ritual.
Under a makeshift awning, Callisthenes extinguished his lantern and rubbed his eyes with ink-smudged fingers. He had slept fitfully, plagued by dreams of his aging father. In the cold hours before daybreak, he had risen and went in search of a scribal palette and papyrus.
… Dawn is not far off With the rising of the sun, the army will shake itself and come to life, a beast woken from slumber. Across the field, amid the Persians, Ihave no doubt that there is a man like me, a man roused early by the need to send one last greeting to his family
I ask a favor, Father. Do not weep forme, for this is the path I have chosen for myself, regardless of whether it leads to glory or ruin. Remember the talks we used to have, in the Hellenium at Naucratis? The talks of duty and honor? The memory of those has sustained me through many a dark night. How I use to scoff at you for deriding glory! Now, though, I understand.
Glory like Justice, is blind. In the past year I ha ve seen scoundrels rise to great office while those of far more noble bearing have expired. You said once that Glory has no master. It's true, I've found. But beyond that, Glory seems to bestow herself like a whore on those least worthy
The sun's rising, Father. Already I hear the polemarchs stirring. Soon the fight will be joined, and I will be in the thick of it. I pray I will be the one who delivers this letter to you. If I'm not, if I fall, then understand that freedom is ofttimes purchased with blood. If my blood is the coin of your freedom, then so be it. The gods have given no man the right to live forever.
He read the letter one last time. Satisfied, Callisthenes rolled it up, placed it in a leather pouch along with his scarab amulet, and looked to his borrowed panoply.
From the doorway of Hathor's forgotten chapel, Barca stared out at the scudding veil of clouds. The rain was a welcome ally. It would neutralize the most feared weapon in the Persian arsenal, the bow. Their archers would be useless. Barca pulled his gaze away and rubbed his eyes. Already he felt tired, drained.
Behind him, he heard Jauharah moving about. She had finished dressing and was gathering up the remnants of their small meal: bread, fruit, a finely strained beer. The leftovers went into a wicker basket. Barca turned from the door and went to where his armor lay. The bronze gleamed, buffed to a mirror-bright sheen, the leather supple, oiled. She must have spent hours on it. Barca picked up his linen corselet and held it between his fists for a long moment before slipping it on.
"Will they fight?" Jauharah said. There was a tension to her voice despite her neutral tone. "In the rain, I mean?"
Barca nodded. "One way or another. They'll be reluctant at first, unwilling to give up their superiority with the bow. Without archers or cavalry, they will be forced to meet us hand-to-hand. That might be too close a fight for Cambyses' liking."
And for mine. Unsaid, the words hung in the air between them. Jauharah hugged herself, shivering. Barca glanced up and saw tears rimming her eyes.
"I had a dream last night," she said. "We were walking down a long slope beside a rushing river. The place was lush, groves of olive and pomegranate trees and long rows of wheat. Cattle grazed in the distance, and I could hear the voices of children …" her voice faltered. She looked away, remembering. Her arms tightened around her chest. "But, as we walked, men rushed along the ridges. Men in armor bearing long spears. They waved and shouted at you, and your eyes flickered between them and me. You were in torment, agonizing at having to choose. The space between us grew until my hand slipped out of yours. You drifted away, toward the ridge, toward the armed men, toward the promise of battle. After that, after you had gone, the land withered. I passed skeletal trees and fields razed as if by fire. I saw rotting mounds of flesh that were once cattle. Even the rushing river grew dry and parched. Worst of all, though, was the silence. I could not hear the children anymore."
Barca's heart wrenched in his breast. He could say nothing, his throat tight, as he blinked back tears of his own. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. Jauharah buried her face in his shoulder, her body wracked with sobs.
"I thought I could be strong, thought I could let you go, but I can't! Let's leave this place while there's still time!" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please! If you go out there, I'm afraid you'll never come back! "
Barca kissed her, stroking her hair as he cradled her head against his chest. He whispered to her: "I'm sorry, Jauharah. You have asked me for so very little. A roof, a warm bed, food. The necessities have been your only desires. And this thing, this one tiny thing, that you ask of me is the one thing I cannot do. This battle began months ago, as a skirmish with Bedouin raiders. Now, it has finally reached its culmination. I, of all people, must see it through to the end. Honor …"
"Honor, Hasdrabal?" she said, pushing away from him. She wiped her eyes. "Honor means nothing if you're dead."
"It's more than that," he said softly. "This has become a thing of far greater importance; greater than any here realize. It's grown beyond individual soldiers or generals or kings. It's become a question of survival. We will be fighting to preserve the Egyptian way of life; the Persians will be fighting to destroy it. This," he gestured around them, "could be the last dawn of Egypt as we know it."
Jauharah's shoulders slumped as her anger drained away. "You're right. There's more at stake here than my own selfish needs. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." Barca caught her hand and pulled her toward him. "If anyone should apologize, it should be me. I'm sorry for dragging you into the middle of all this."
"You didn't drag me, Hasdrabal. I'm here because I could not imagine being anywhere else. And, I'll be here when the battle's over."
"Then, when the battle's over," Barca said, "we'll find that long slope beside the quick-flowing river and make the best parts of your dream come true."
Jauharah hugged him tight; Barca buried his face in her hair. Beyond the doorway, the Phoenician could hear the distant sounds of armed men, muffled by the rain. He imagined they were beckoning …
In his tent, Nebmaatra listened to the staccato plop of rain as he tightened the last buckle on his corselet and took up his ostrich-plumed helmet. He had risen early, dismissed his grooms, and prepared himself as he had in the past, when he was a mere soldier. His mind was calm, unburdened by dread or trepidation. The general had spent part of the night going through the contents of a small cedar-wood chest he planned to deposit at the House of Life. Old letters, drawings, legal documents, his father's scarab seal, his mother's faience bracelet. All of this would pass on to his sister, at Thebes. Both his brothers had died young, one of the fever and the other from a fall. He had no wife; no children of his own.
Nebmaatra smiled, recalling the look on his sister's face when he declined to take a wife. "Who will care for you in your old age?" she would say, in the same patient voice she used on her unruly children. Nebmaatra would only smile and pat her cheek. He did not have the heart to tell her that, as a soldier, he would likely never see old age.
Nebmaatra's life revolved around one simple premise: service to the throne. Perhaps he had done a disservice to the gods by not marrying and begetting children, but in his mind this was balanced by his commitment to protect his land and his king. If the gods allowed their favorites to prosper, then he could not have soured too many divine stomachs. He had a modest tomb at Saqqara, a set of grave goods, and professional mourners. What more did a man need?
With a last look, Nebmaatra tucked his helmet under his arm and stepped outside. It was time to attend Pharaoh.
At first glance the camp was a hotbed of activity, almost chaotic. But there was an underlying sense of order to it, a method that spoke well of Nebmaatra's abilities as an organizer. Soldiers rushed to their mustering points. Servants handled water, food, spare weapons and equipment. Priests and scribes bore baskets of correspondence for safe-keeping in the House of Life. Every man knew his place. Nebmaatra's chest swelled with pride.
Through the apparent chaos, he caught sight of Barca and Jauharah. They walked arm in arm, at their own pace. Soldiers, servants, priests, and scribes flowed around them. The pair stopped at the side entrance to the House of Life.
Nebmaatra watched, knowing he witnessed something intensely personal.
There were no drawn out goodbyes, no histrionics. Their hands touched for a brief instant; their eyes locked, a strained smile. Then she was gone, vanished into the depths of the House of Life.
Barca looked at the sky, closing his eyes against the spattering rain.
Nebmaatra approached him. "Sleep well?"
"Like the dead," Barca said. "You?"
"As a babe at his mother's breast," Nebmaatra said. Both lied and the other knew it.
"We may have to goad them," Barca said. Nebmaatra nodded. The Phoenician continued, "They know their preferred tactics will be useless, but we cannot let Cambyses retire from the field. He must attack today."
"Strange," the Egyptian said. "I spent three weeks dreading this day, sick with the anticipation of it. This could be my last among the living, and now that it has dawned, I'm eager to see the end of it."
"Then our places have changed, my friend," Barca said. "I am near paralyzed with dread. It's a new sensation for me, and I feel shamed by it."
"Are you becoming mortal, Barca?"
"I've been mortal," Barca said, extending his hand to Nebmaatra. "Now, it seems, I'm becoming human, again."
Nebmaatra nodded and clasped his hand. "Fight well, Hasdrabal son of Gisco."
"I'11 see you when this is over," Barca said, turning. Nebmaatra watched him go, watched him vanish as Jauharah had in the swirl and eddy of humanity.
"I hope so," the Egyptian muttered. "I hope so." His heart suddenly heavy, Nebmaatra turned and walked to Pharaoh's tent.
Pharaoh sat on his golden throne and listened to the rain. He had dismissed his courtiers, his advisers, even Ujahorresnet, in order to compose his thoughts in relative peace. The golden scales of his armor clashed as he shifted; of gold, too, were his arm braces, decorated in raised reliefs depicting the gods of war. Instead of the crook and the flail, the hereditary tokens of rule, his hands caressed the haft of an axe.
It was an elegant weapon. The slightly curving handle terminated in a flared bronze head, and the whole was overlaid with gold. The scene on the blade depicted Pharaoh smiting a captive with the label "Beloved of Neith" beneath. A gift from his father.
Father.
Ahmose had been a lifelong soldier, a man born to the art of war. Psammetichus wondered where such a man's thoughts dwelt in that hour before battle. Did Ahmose second guess his strategy? Did he spend time praying to the gods for luck and success in battle? Or did he just sit quietly and think of the wives he left behind, the children?
He conjured an image from memory. An image of his father as a younger man. He imagined him sitting in this same tent, alone, an axe in his hands. What would Pharaoh do? Where would Pharaoh turn? The answer would not come. Psammetichus could only remember his father as a man, laughing, swapping jests with his generals, drinking wine.
Perhaps that was the answer.
Nebmaatra and Ujahorresnet appeared at the door of the tent. The general carried the blue war crown. They bowed to Pharaoh.
"It's time, 0 Son of Ra," Nebmaatra said.
"Wait." Ujahorresnet held a small pottery figure in his hands, decorated as a Persian with the name of Cambyses inscribed on it. He placed it at Pharaoh's feet. Psammetichus raised an eyebrow. Quickly, Ujahorresnet explained, "In the time of the god-kings, magic was wrought this way. The ancient ones would smash the effigies of their enemies to insure their power over them would not wane."
"I should do no less than the god-kings, eh, my friends?" Pharaoh rose and, after a moment's pause, brought his heel down on the Persian effigy. "I wish it were as easy as this." Pharaoh accepted the crown from Nebmaatra, and together they rushed out to take their positions.
The priest lagged behind to gather up the shards. Inside the Persian figurine was a smaller effigy, also of pottery, faceless and undecorated. A pair of shenu, name rings, was inscribed on the broken figure.
Ankhkaenre Psammetichus.
Barca moved among the mercenaries, not with the pomp of a general, but as a man, stopping along the way to share a joke, to give a greeting. He laughed, and the mercenaries laughed with him. Barca was a man they could follow. Not born of noble blood, not a man who would command from the rear ranks, but a soldier like themselves. A man who would fight, bleed, and even die with them. Nubian, Libyan, Greek, Medjay. As disparate as they were, divided by culture and language, they were bound by the same awe, the same fascination, the same love for their Phoenician general.
Barca carried himself with the supreme self-assurance of a man comfortable with war. Whatever roiled in his soul did not project to his exterior. The face he presented to his soldiers was the face of a man who wore the heavy bronze cuirass as a second skin; the sword he carried was an extension of his hand, and the shield on his arm virtually weightless. He would face the enemy alone, if need be.
But there would be little need for that. Slowly, as if the sound would dispel the glorious apparition of their general, a chant rose from the ranks of the Medjay.
"Bar-ca! Bar-ca!"
It carried from man to man, from throat to throat. Four thousand. Eight thousand. Twelve thousand and growing.
"Bar-ca! Bar-ca!"
The Nubians in the front ranks bounced on the balls of their feet, chanting in their tongue, a frenzied dance of war meant to secure victory. Their muscular backs gleamed with moisture. Libyans and Greeks pumped their spears heavenward or clashed them against their shield rims. Nowhere else along the Egyptian line was this sort of display going on. The native troops heard the clamor and marveled. Had the mercenaries gone mad?
"BAR-CA! BAR-CA!"
And amidst this furious storm, Hasdrabal Barca stood alone. His face was solemn as he drew his sword and saluted his men. "Brothers!" he cried as the chant reached its crescendo and began to ebb. "Brothers! It's no hard thing for men like you or Ito risk our lives in battle. It's our lifeblood, our calling. But, these Egyptians, these men who have come here to defend their homes, their wives, their children.. these men are the true heroes. Today, foreigner and native will stand shoulder to shoulder, and for a time, we will all share the same cause. The cause of Victory! "
"Victory!" The cry rippled through the mercenaries. Hearing it, the Egyptian regiments took up the word. "Victory! " The cacophony grew, until finally the combined voices of sixty-five thousand men shook the foundations of heaven.
"Take your marks! For Egypt and Victory!"
The clamor redoubled as the soldiers found their marshaling salients with the ease of men accustomed to battle.
A figure threaded toward Barca from the direction of the Egyptian camp. At first, the Phoenician thought it might be a messenger sent to deliver some last minute change of plans. As he slogged closer, Barca recognized the face under the helmet.
"Callisthenes?"
The Greek smiled, adjusting the breastplate he had procured. A shield hung from his arm; an uncrested Corinthian helmet perched precariously on his forehead. "I could not, in good conscience, sit this one out. After Memphis and Gaza, why act squeamish now? As a boy, I dreamed of fighting in a great battle, of making my mark on the papyrus of history. Now," he thumped his bronze-sheathed chest, "I have my wish."
Barca smiled and gripped the Greek's forearm. "Take your place, then."
Callisthenes turned and made to join his kinsmen from Naucratis, then stopped. He looked at Barca. "If I fall," he said, "give Jauharah a message for me. Tell her I said thank you. I found comfort in her words."
Barca nodded. "You can tell her yourself, after we're finished here."
Callisthenes waved and vanished in the throng of soldiers.
Barca searched his soul, feeling for that well spring of anger that had sustained him in battle for the last twenty years, and found nothing. The Beast was dead. A chill danced down Barca's spine. Fine. He would fight this battle without the benefit of a red rage. His mind focused on one thing: on seeing Jauharah's face at the end of the day. Whatever he had to do to make that a reality, he would. All hesitation fled from him, replaced by an iron resolve that stiffened with each passing moment.
The Phoenician walked to the crest of the hill and stared away east. Below, beyond the angled palisades, the pennons of the mercenaries hung motionless in the damp air. Through a gray haze of rain, he could barely discern the front ranks of the Persians. He heard the dull rumble of thunder, then realized it was the sound of an army on the move. Soldiers were crossing the interval. They would fight. To his left, he could see the hill tumbling down to the sandy strand; to his right, the colorful banners of the regiment of Ptah.
Barca took up his position at the center of the left wing. The Medjay flowed around him, a guard of honor, presenting a front two hundred shields across and five deep. Left of the Medjay, and anchoring the flank, were the men of Naucratis, five hundred shields across and ten deep, commanded by the Olympian, Oeolycos. Between the Medjay and the Egyptian regiment of Ptah were the Libyans, led by Prince Hardjedef, arrayed in the same formation as the Greeks. The soldiers of Cyrene were held in reserve, despite the protests of their commander, Andriscus. Dark-skinned Nubians ranged ahead, each man bearing a spear, a knotty club, and a shield of thick elephant hide. Otherwise, they were naked. Even their chief, Shabako.
Through the rain, a skirmish line of Persian infantry advanced at a crawl. Thousands of men in loose formation, ten deep, clambered over obstacles and slogged through mud. The moisture had ruined any chance for an arrow storm, but Cambyses was not without options. Those men marching through the gray haze were lightly armored javelineers. Barca had expected as much.
They drew up some three-hundred paces from the Egyptian lines. An order bawled in a sibilant tongue produced a flurry of activity. Each soldier had three ash and iron shafts — one cocked behind his right ear, the other two held ready in his left fist. At a cry from their commander, the soldiers raced forward, propelling their javelins high with every ounce of strength they could muster.
"Shields!" Barca roared. His trumpeter blared the order, echoed by Nebmaatra's on the extreme right. All along the Egyptian line shields sprang into the air, angled to deflect incoming missiles. "Brace yourselves! Here it comes!" Arching out of the gray sky came a fusillade of iron-heads — a deluge thicker than anything Barca had ever seen. There was a beauty in it, a symmetry of flight as the individual darts reached their apex then gracefully descended, pulled earthward by the weight of their razored tips. Barca watched until the last minute, fascinated.
As impressive as this volley was in flight, its impact was more so. The sound deafened; the hiss of an ash shaft followed by the hammering of iron on shield wrenched prayers from more than one man's lips. Bolts smacked the thick hide bucklers of the Egyptians like the clap of metal on flesh, amplified to the extreme. Javelins caromed off the bronze of the Greek allies, or splintered on their bowl-shaped aspides.
One soldier, a man of Naucratis, risked a glance over the edge of his shield and died as a javelin punched through the eye socket of his Corinthian helmet. Others screamed as iron warheads ripped into every inch of exposed flesh: neck, shoulder, thigh, foot. A Nubian made the mistake of dropping his buckler to clutch at his riven calf. A heartbeat later his body flopped to the earth, pincushioned. Casualties, while not significant, mounted.
A second volley followed. A third. Darts protruded from the earth like stalks of grain. A few daring souls snatched them up and hurled them back down the slope.
Barca felt javelins glance off his shield, skitter off his breastplate. Impacts slowed to a trickle, then ceased. He glanced around the rim of his shield. The javelineers were pulling back, beating it through the muck in an effort to escape any retaliatory strike the Egyptians might mount. Barca felt anticipation flowing from his men; they looked at him, their eyes begging permission to give chase. No. That would be playing into Cambyses's hands.
"Cinch up your balls, brothers! " Barca thundered. "Those were love-taps compared to what's next! Move the wounded to the rear! Check your interval! "
"He's there, on their left," Phanes said.
"How can you tell?" Darius squinted, shading his eyes from the rain with a gloved hand. Despite his age, the young Persian carried himself with all the cool and aplomb of a seasoned campaigner.
Phanes smiled, and it was not a gesture of mirth. "You could hear them chanting his name."
"I will pull my soldiers back so your hoplites can take the point," Darius said. His soldiers, like the whole of the army, were a heterogeneous mix cobbled together by the King's will, alone. Most of them spoke no Persian, forcing him to issue commands through an aide well-versed in a sort of pidgin Aramaic. Darius motioned for his adjutant. Phanes stopped him, his manner brusque.
"No. Let your troops soften up their position. My men will form the third wave."
"As you wish," Darius replied. Both men fell silent as the Persian light infantry retreated back across the jagged battlefield. They had loosed their javelins; now, they faded behind the gathering heavy infantry and went into reserve positions. All across the Persian front assault troops found their marks and massed for a charge.
They did not have long to wait. Trumpeters shrieked their orders from the center, from beneath the King's standard.
The Egyptians waited in anxious silence, not moving, not speaking. Barca wondered if all breath had fled them. A horn brayed, and through the mist he could see the flash and glitter of enemy infantry. Cambyses' army was a patchwork of levies drawn from the far-flung corners of his empire. The Immortals, so named because their ranks were always at ten thousand — never more, never less — formed the core of the invading force. Around them were arrayed the men of Persia, Media, Chaldea; turbaned Cissians from the mountainous regions east of Susa fought beside Assyrians from the upper Euphrates, while Hyrkanians from the fringes of the Caspian Sea worked in tandem with their one-time enemies, the Sacae. The Great King of Persia employed his share of mercenaries as well: hoplites from Ionia and Caria; peltasts from the eastern Aegean; savage Thracians; even remnants of the Cimmerian horde.
At this distance Barca could not tell which of Cambyses' myriad legions approached; truth be told, he didn't care. He was ready for this fight to be over.
"They're terrified," Barca said, his voice carrying. "Look at them! The rain hides well the stains on the front of their trousers, stains where they've pissed themselves! " The tension cracked. Men laughed, jostling one another. "Would you not piss yourself if you were in their place? Those men are about to die, not for their homes, not for their families, not even for gold! Those men are about to die because Cambyses wishes it! He wants Egypt! He wants to prove he is a better man than his father! Cyrus was wise! Cyrus knew what Cambyses is about to learn … that Egypt belongs to no man but Pharaoh!" Jeers and catcalls rose from the ranks of the mercenaries.
The enemy moved in a close formation, swaying with that curious stride only noticeable when large groups of men march together. Banners and pennons sprinkled the enemy ranks, splashes of color in the oppressive gray. Barca heard a commotion behind him. He half turned as a runner dashed up with a message from Pharaoh. Mud spackled the boy from his belly to his toes, and his round face was pale, tight-lipped. Dark eyes rolled across the broad enemy front. He ran rampant over his tongue as he tried to deliver his message.
"Slow down, lad," Barca said. "Take a breath and look at me."
The runner exhaled slowly and tried to focus on Barca. "T-The Immortals are moving against the center. P-Pharaoh, in his wisdom, h-has pulled back from the front. His Majesty will oversee the commander of the regiment of Amon."
Barca dismissed the boy with a wave. So, Pharaoh has tasted combat and found it too sour for his palate. What would his father think? Unlike Psammetichus, Barca did not have the luxury of time to ponder life's little nuances. He had a battle to fight. Barca thrust aside thoughts of Pharaoh and turned his attention back to the enemy.
An order cracked like a whip over their heads, and the speed of the oncoming host increased. Ruptures appeared in their formation; the line grew ragged as men edged to the right, seeking shelter in the shadow of their comrades. Faster they came. The ground shook.
Closer. At a dead run, now. Charging uphill. Screams of fury rose above the clatter of arms and harness. Barca could discern individual faces, now. Beneath sodden turbans their eyes were wide, lips peeled back in bestial snarls. Amulets to their crude gods were thonged about their necks. These were Cissians, hillmen from the Zagros Mountains, clad in leather and iron scale and armed with spears and foot-long knives.
Closer still. Each footfall sent plumes of mud and water into the air, thicker than the descending rain. Thousands of throats loosed a blood-curdling warcry, not unlike that of the Bedouin. "Eleleleleleleu! "
Barca raised his sword heavenward …
" Now! '
A horn blast skirled, its notes hanging in the air. In answer, the Nubians took two powerful steps forward and hurled their heavy bronze-and-bone tipped lances with all the power their dusky shoulders could command. Spear casts that could bring down an elephant ripped through leather and iron and flesh. Men thrashed, impaled. Screams of agony replaced those of fury. The Cissians faltered.
And Barca, flanked by his mercenaries, charged.
The two armies met, not with the thunder of hammer on anvil, but with the subtle, terrifying sound of cracking bone, amplified to a deafening cacophony. Bodies crushed together. Spears licked and darted. Swords crashed on shields. Blood rained to the ground, mixing with the mud churning underfoot to form a hellish soup that clutched at a man's ankles like quicksand.
A cold fury gripped the Phoenician. His mind was crystal, unhampered by rage, by the Beast. A Cissian lunged; Barca sidestepped and smashed him down with the flat of his shield. After that, men strained breast to breast, hand to hand, their feet clawing for purchase on the slimy ground. Barca inverted his sword and thrust it over the rim of his shield, driving it point-first into his foeman's eyes. Spear heads skittered off his armor, gouging bright furrows in the bronze. A hand clutched at his sword-blade and lost its fingers in the process. Underfoot, the dying clung to his knees.
In all his battles, Barca had never fought in so compacted a mass of men. He had nowhere to turn. Splinters of wood and metal raked his flesh, drawing blood. Frustration mounted when he could not step to the side to avoid the flying debris. Forward or back were his only options. Any step forward meant planting one foot solidly on what he hoped was a corpse and thrusting his shield out before him. Any step back meant giving the enemy a toehold in the Egyptian line. Gouged and peppered by shrapnel hacked from sword, spear, and shield, Barca opted to press forward. Behind him, the mercenaries followed suit.
Inexorably, they forced the Cissians back.
Battle raged as the day wore on. Beyond the gray pall of clouds, the sun reached its zenith and descended into the west. On the ground, the lines swelled and ebbed like a tide of flesh. A wall of Hyrkanians forced Nebmaatra's men back, beyond the palisade and onto the upper slopes of the hill. The center reeled from the savage onslaught of the Immortals; the regiment of Amon drew strength from the Sekhmet and Osiris regiments on its flanks. The Egyptian ranks were thinning. On the left, Barca's mercenaries stood their ground. The Nubians shattered charge after charge of Cissian and Assyrian infantry, sloughing the remains off to the Libyans on their right and the Greek allies on their left. The Medjay stood like a stone bulwark in a storm.
Barca slung his shield down, its bronze face staved in, and snatched another from the ground. He stood in the eye of the storm, in the pocket of calm formed by the natural ebb and flow of battle, and peered out toward the Egyptian regiments. The mercenaries were well forward of the remainder of the army; so far, in fact, that they risked exposing their flank. They would have to fall back before some enterprising Persian commander drove a wedge between them and the regiment of Ptah.
Amid the pandemonium Barca located his trumpeter cowering in the mud beside the standard bearer. He grabbed the man up and ordered him to ply his instrument. "Fall back to the hilltop!" The notes skirled, weak at first then growing stronger as the trumpeter found his wind again. At the same time, Barca signaled for the men of Cyrene to join the fray. Andriscus and his fresh troops could screen the strategic withdrawal. "Fall back to the hilltop!"
Slowly, like a rock split by ice, the two armies disengaged.
That's when disaster struck.
Barca himself could not be certain what happened. One moment, his front lines were falling back through the palisade and the screen of Cyrenaen troops, and the next chaos ruled.
Chaos in the guise of an enemy phalanx.
Phanes' soldiers, hoplites of Ionia and Caria, smashed into the withdrawing Medjay. Their exact moment of impact could not have had a more devastating effect. Barca watched, helpless, as the loose, fluid formations of his men were shattered by the interleaved shields and jabbing spears of the enemy.
The Horus-eye standard dipped and fell as the Medjay desperately sought to repel the enemy hoplites. It was like trying to stop a bronze-bladed threshing machine. Barca saw Tjemu stumble, clutching at the man beside him. His shield went awry. Barca flinched as a spear, thrust overhand, plunged down between the Libyan's helmet and cuirass. His body vanished under foot.
The hoplites scythed through the Medjay and plowed into the Nubians and Libyans. Ahead of them, the men of Naucratis closed ranks with the Cyrenaen troops, presenting a wall of shields to the onrushing foemen. A hymn to Poseidon rose from the throats of the allies.
The two Greek phalanxes, kinsmen bound by blood and separated by politics, met in a grinding crash of armor. Bronze and muscle strained against one another. Spears thrust over the tops of shields struck their targets with homicidal precision. Helmets were punctured; breastplates pierced.
Barca let Greek fight Greek while he rallied the Libyans and the Nubians. A handful of Medjay staggered to his side, loyal unto death. The Phoenician knew where the enemy would be the most vulnerable. A strike against their exposed left flank would shatter their cohesion, forcing them to wheel and defend against this new threat. If he …
A sound forced its way through Barca's battle-heightened perception, shattering his tactical mind set; a sound he had heard many times and in many places. The commotion arose from his right, from among the native Egyptian regiments, radiating from the center with a convulsive force that stripped breath from lungs and left knees weak. He turned and peered through the drizzle.
"Psammetichus, you son of a bitch! "
The Immortals were relentless. Wave after wave crashed against the Egyptian center, eroding it like a sand wall in an ocean squall. Under the eyes of Pharaoh, the regiment of Amon fought with magnificent valor, repulsing each attack despite heavy casualties. Men stumbled past Psammetichus, reeling from their wounds, their weapons hanging forgotten in fists too cramped to open. Others rushed forward to take their places. The sounds floating up from the front lines, the furious clangor of bronze and iron, the screams of the fallen, sent tendrils of fear through Pharaoh's belly.
He stood in his chariot, the horses calmed by a pair of grooms, as the battle raged a few hundred feet away. He had intended to take his place in the front line, but the javelins had changed his mind. Now, he was working up the courage to join his men.
Nebmaatra and Barca both fought amongst their troops. As Pharaoh, could he do any less than his generals? He had to do something. Order a charge, maybe? Send reserves in to fill gaps in the faltering line?
As Psammetichus watched, the Egyptian line ceased to falter and began to crumble. A wedge of Immortals drove through the regiment of Amon and split the Calasirians in two. The breach filled with Persians. He knew he had to make a choice now: charge or withdraw. Pharaoh glanced left and right. The thick, steady drizzle cloaked the flanks in a gray haze; he could see neither Nebmaatra nor Barca. Were they still alive? Terror clutched his heart in icy talons. Charge or withdraw?
A faceless Mede, howling in fury, burst through the retaining wall of Egyptian soldiers, a spear cocked above his left ear. Just as his weight shifted in anticipation of the cast, his arm extending, a mortally wounded Calasirian rose up behind the Mede and bore him to the ground. Their thrashings were lost from view. A second Persian followed on their heels, slinging his spear haphazardly seconds before a sword tore through his guts. The shaft wobbled in mid-flight and went awry, but it was enough for Psammetichus.
"Withdraw!" he screamed, hauling on the reins of his chariot and trampling his own grooms. "Withdraw! "
Like an infection, Pharaoh's panic spread.
Against Nebmaatra, the Hyrkanians fought like madmen. The first few hours served to pare the fat from the Egyptian lines. Soldiers who were too slow, too afraid, or too reckless fell first. They were good men, all, but they lacked the killer instinct of the survivors. Those who remained were harder than granite. Again and again the Egyptians hurled the enemy down the slope, only to watch them reform and charge once more. They were relentless.
"Watch the flank! Don't let them overlap us!" Nebmaatra shouted to his captains during one of the many lulls in the fighting. Below them, a wall of snarling faces surged up the hillside. "Here they come again!"
A scream pierced the din of combat, a sound unlike any Nebmaatra had heard this day. It wasn't fury or pain that wrenched that yell from a soldier's lips. It was defeat. Another scream, this one closer. Then another. Sensing something wrong, the Egyptians grew panicked. They rolled their eyes toward the center, toward Pharaoh's banners, and saw the core of the army in retreat. Panic turned to fear, and despite their granite-hard exteriors, that fear sapped any vestige of honor they might have had. They threw down spear and shield and ran, following the example of the Son of Ra.
The Hyrkanians, sensing imminent victory, redoubled their efforts.
"Stand! " Nebmaatra roared as Pharaoh's army crumbled. "Stand and fight, damn you!" A few heeded his cry, but not enough. The Hyrkanians crushed the right flank as if it were made of pottery.
Nebmaatra found himself alone. His guard lay dead about him, crowning the small hill in a ruin of flesh and bone. The Hyrkanians gave him little respite. Already they were streaming past him, a river split by a lone rock, to fall on the unprotected flank of the center. The Egyptian swayed. He was covered in blood, much of it his own, his corselet in tatters and his helm long since lost in the wrack. Gore clotted the blade of his sword.
For a moment he stood again in his family's home, in Thebes. A breeze ruffled the linen sheers; sunlight striped the tiled floor. He saw a scribe delivering his chest to his sister, saw her open it. She was thin, like their mother, with large eyes the color of a moonlit pool. Her husband, a quiet man who served the temple of Amon, stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. "He lived the best way he knew how," he said. His sister bowed her head …
The noose of Hyrkanians tightened. They rushed forward. The foremost among them fell under Nebmaatra's blade. The Egyptian bellowed in defiance and hurled himself at a barbarous Hyrkanian, splitting his helmet open. The injured man's axe crushed his shoulder. Nebmaatra reeled. A slender lance darted past his failing guard to bury itself in his chest. The Egyptian fell to his knees; his sword dropped from his weakening grasp. He coughed blood.
Nebmaatra craned his neck and stared at the sky. Gray and white clouds drifted across the face of the sun god, Ra, sparing him from witnessing the shame wrought by his son, by Pharaoh. Many were his tears, and they spilled down from the heavens like rain …
"H-He is not h-his father," Nebmaatra whispered seconds before a Hyrkanian's axe freed his ka.
Though chaotic and scrambled, Barca could read the battlefield as though it were an immaculately penned text. The center had caved in, shattering like a glass bowl. Nebmaatra held a while longer, but the Hyrkanians had overwhelmed him in a series of reckless charges. He could barely see the broken standard being paraded about the crown of the distant hill. With the right swept away, the fleeing regiments of the center were flanked and cut off. Pockets of resistance flared as the commanders of Amon attempted a rear guard action. Barca knew in his bones that Psammetichus had escaped. He hoped Pharaoh would defend Egypt from dam to dike, but he had a sinking feeling that his flight would not stop until he reached the gates of Memphis. The battle was over. He had to get to Jauharah …
A hand clutched at Barca's ankle. He glanced down.
A Greek lay tangled in a heap of Cissian dead, a shivered spear protruding from his sternum. Barca crouched, helped him off with his helmet, and stopped. Callisthenes. Rain bathed his face. His eyes blinked rapidly. "I … I c-could not k-keep up," he said, coughing blood. "They s-surrounded me … It-tried.."
"You fought well, my friend," Barca said. Soldiers were rushing by, elements of the Libyan regiment. Barca motioned to two of them. "You're going to be fine, you hear me? These men will get you back to the tents. You're going to be fine! "
Callisthenes laughed, turning his head as a spasm clenched his chest. "I'll s-see you across the river, P-Phoenician."
Barca clutched the Greek's hand, then nodded to the two soldiers. Both bore wounds of their own. "Get him back to the tents," he said, rising. "Seek out a woman called Jauharah." Barca watched them gently carry Callisthenes away, then closed his eyes.
Barca stood at a crossroad. Fight or flight? He could quit the battle, quit Egypt, and travel with Jauharah to some forgotten corner of the world. They could raise crops and children and grow old at each other's side. Or he could exact revenge. For Matthias. For Ithobaal. For his Medjay. For Tjemu. Their howling ghosts would never afford him a moment's respite should he turn his back on them now. Fight? Flight? He recalled Phanes' words, spoken in a cell in Memphis. This cult ofbonor. I'm afraid I'll never grasp it.
This cult of honor. Honor. For all that his heart screamed of love and compassion, Barca knew he could not turn his back on honor. He could not flee. Whatever the outcome, he would stand his ground. The road of vengeance, once taken, could not be denied.
A spear of ice impaled the Phoenician. He threw his head back and howled in rage.
In response, the Beast woke from its slumber.