Men of Bronze (26 page)

The officer in charge at the northern gate, a dispossessed nobleman from Rhodes, wiped at the sweat pouring down his face. He stared at the statues flanking the huge twin-towered gateway, at the images depicting Pharaoh crushing his enemies in the presence of a solemn-faced Ptah, at the hieroglyphs carved deep into the rock on either side of the silver and cedar flagpoles. To get from this entrance to the interior of the temple proper, an intruder had to pass through four such gateways, each named for a king of antiquity. “These sons of whores know how to build a defensive wall,” he said, patting the cyclopean stonework. From their summit, his peltasts could hold off a superior force of Egyptians. “Sit tight, lads. It might fall upon us to save the day, after all. Dion, bring me that water skin. This cursed country is like an oven.”

The young man called Dion caught up the skin of water and ambled over. He had only gone a few feet when he stumbled and fell. Amid the laughter and the jeers, the officer sprang to his feet, clawing for his spear.

An arrow stood out from the juncture of Dion’s neck and shoulder.

The peltasts’ laughter died as a howling mob of Egyptian peasants stormed through a door in the side of the gate.

Sweat dripped down Callisthenes’ nose. His slick hands clutched the hilt of his sword. This was battle. The real thing. He felt no sense of power, no thirst for glory. All Callisthenes felt was the cold hands of fear. He hugged the wall as Ibebi and the others surged past, slamming into the unprepared Greeks. One of the Egyptians, the stonecutter Khety, took the blade of a spear to his chest. It rammed through his body, exploding out his back. Khety died on his feet. Callisthenes felt his gorge rise.

Another peltast leapt Khety’s body and barreled straight for Callisthenes, leveling his javelin. To his credit, Callisthenes did not allow his fear to master him. He darted aside in the last possible second, his foot dragging out behind him, and swung wildly. The peltast skidded on the stones, then tripped over Callisthenes’ foot.

The man hit the ground hard, on his stomach, air exploding from his lungs. Before he could rise, Callisthenes spun and drove the point of his sword between the peltast’s shoulder blades, into the gristle and bone of his spine. The man spasmed and died.

I killed a man
. Callisthenes’ hands trembled. He looked down at the dead Greek and felt colder still.
I killed a man of Hellas
. There was no glory in this. The cacophony of battle drew him from his reverie.

All around him knots of Egyptians engaged the demoralizedpeltasts. He saw Hekaib gut a soldier nearly twice his size. Thothmes wielded a sword like a man possessed, hacking limbs and skulls. Ibebi, he noticed, fought with the cool precision of a veteran. Even stately Amenmose howled and flung himself into the fray. Barca, Pentu, and a handful of others mounted the steps to the parapet.

“Back! Force them back! “ he heard Barca yell.

“Force them back!” Barca roared, dashing along the parapet. A Cretan archer gaped at him, his mind not registering what his eyes beheld. The back of Barca’s hand sent the man spinning from the parapet. The sound and smell of bloodshed reached into Barca’s soul. He felt the Beast fighting against its chains, longing to be free.

Another Cretan spun, notching an arrow. His eyes widened as the Phoenician bore down upon him. Barca loosed a hideous scream, his face screwed up in a rictus of hate. The archer’s trembling hands released the arrow too soon. It splintered on the stones of the parapet. As he groped for another shaft, Barca’s sword sheared through his collarbone and lodged in his chest. The Cretan gurgled as Barca kicked him free of his blade.

A second peltast charged him, thrusting a javelin at Barca’s midsection. The Phoenician weaved, allowing the javelin to pass between himself and the wall, as he drove his shoulder into the peltast’s body. The soldier catapulted from the parapet, his screams lost to the thronging mass of fighters below. Barca scooped up the fallen Cretan’s bow and a pair of arrows.

Pentu and the others swept the Greeks from the wall. Barca left it to the guard captain to station archers at key points while he rushed to the juncture of the north and west walls to get a handle on the battle taking place in the Square.

He found himself looking down on the right flank of the Greek phalanx. He looked for Phanes as he nocked an arrow. Instead, the Greeks were rallying to a squat man in blood-splashed armor. Not Phanes, but an important fellow, nonetheless. Was it one of his regiment commanders?

Barca shrugged and took careful aim. He could see the squat man reinforcing the phalanx, bawling orders that Barca could not hear. The Phoenician exhaled …

Nicias staggered, clawing at the arrow that sprouted from between his shoulder blades, lodging in his armor. He turned. A second arrow threaded through the eye socket of his helmet. Nicias toppled; leaderless, his men fell into disarray.

Above the battle, Barca threw the bow aside and caught up his sword.

The fight for the gate was brutal. Callisthenes saw men he had known as peaceful farmers take on the guise of feral beasts — kicking, spitting, and biting. They fought for their homes, their wives, their children. The Greeks fought for their lives. It was a bitter struggle, without quarter or mercy.

Caught up in the press of bodies, Callisthenes found himself near the forefront. Ahead of him, partially engulfed in the shadow of the second pylon, a gateway named for warrior-queen Hatshepsut, he saw Amenmose stumble backward. A Greek surged forward, driving his spear toward the old man’s belly.

Callisthenes acted from instinct. He batted aside the spear and kicked the peltast in the groin. With the adrenalin coursing through his system, though, Callisthenes might as well have struck the man with a feather. The soldier tried to bring his spear back into play, its head skittering on the stones. Sickened, Callisthenes had no other choice.

His sword struck the man where neck and shoulderjoined. It sheared through leather, flesh, and bone, driving the peltast to his knees. A second blow ended his suffering.

“Help me up!” Amenmose ordered. Callisthenes pried his gaze away from the second Greek he had killed and moved to the old Egyptian’s side. He was weak, exhausted, and bleeding from a score of gashes. Ibebi materialized at his side.

“Get him back!” he yelled, pointing the way they had come.

“What about you?” Callisthenes draped Amenmose’s arm over his shoulder.

“Our infantry is coming! Only have to hold for a few more minutes!” And with that Ibebi plunged into the fighting. He and the others stood firm in the gateway, slowly forcing the Greeks back. Swords and spears licked out. One of Ibebi’s flankers went down, his entrails spilling across the stones. Three arrows avenged the fallen youth, slashing into the charging peltast. His corpse snarled the feet of his mates as they pressed forward, intent on securing the gate and, with it, their freedom.

“They only need to hold a moment longer!” Callisthenes muttered. Already, elements of the Egyptian regular infantry streamed through the northern entrance.

Ibebi hurled the young man at his side back and was turning to make room for the Egyptian soldiers when a Greek spear took him low, in the spine. He fell, clawing at the dust as a half a dozen more spears ended his life.

“Where is he? I cannot see him,” Amenmose said.

“He is with Osiris, now.” Callisthenes slumped against the wall of the gate and looked out over the roiling sea of bodies, his eyes moist. This madness owned nothing of glory. Nothing!

Barca descended the stairs inside the gate, shaking drops of blood from his sword blade. The Greeks had not fought well, but they died well. It was enough for their gods. He wished their shades the best as they crossed the river. The Phoenician’s skin burned with fever and he could feel warmth oozing from his gashed side, but he felt no pain. Perhaps it was true about the thrill of battle negating the effects of wounds. Matthias had told him that, once. A pang of guilt stabbed Barca’s heart. He had caused the deaths of too many of those closest to him. Matthias. Ithobaal. His men. Neferu.

Guilt turned to rage.

He emerged from the gate and found Jauharah aiding the priests who were tending to the wounded. Her arms were covered in blood up to the elbow; blood streaked her forehead where she had pushed her hair out of her eyes. Those eyes glanced up, catching sight of Barca. She disengaged herself from a young man whose screams of agony intermingled with pleas for his mother. She drifted across to the Phoenician, moving like a woman caught in the grip of a nightmare.

“I-I never imagined …” she trailed off, her eyes roving over the carnage.

“Most never do. This is how peace is kept.”

She glanced down. “You’re bleeding.” Barca followed her gaze. Blood seeped out from under his cuirass, soaking the hem and side of his kilt. She reached for the buckles holding the heavy breastplate in place, but Barca brushed her hands away.

“Later.”

“What will you do now?” she said.

Others had clustered around him, their lips framing the same question. He saw Thothmes and Hekaib, Pentu and his temple guardsmen, and beyond the circle of Egyptians, he spotted Callisthenes and Amenmose sitting with their backs against the foot of a pharaonic statue, passing a wineskin back and forth. The merchant of Naucratis had an odd look in his eyes, a look Barca had seen a thousand times over. The look of innocence shattered.

Barca glanced out over the battlefield. “I have my men to avenge.”

“I’m with you,” Thothmes said. Hekaib nodded. “And me.” Several other Egyptians expressed an interest in joining their Pharaoh.

“Fine,” Barca said. “But know this. Once we leave these walls, you men are on your own. If you fall behind, I’ll not drop back and guide you by the hand.”

“So be it!” Thothmes bristled. Barca nodded. He stooped and grabbed a fallen shield. The Egyptians followed his lead. Men with no armor stripped the dead, taking their greaves, their helmets. In a twinkling, the farmers and masons and artisans were gone, and in their place stood a score of Egyptian soldiers, faces grim and bloody.

Without a word, Barca led them out through the northern entrance.