Men of Bronze (27 page)

The men alongside Phanes fought like the sons of Achilles. They used their spears, their shields, even their bodies to repulse the first wave of chariots. Horses screamed and died. Men leapt from their chariots as their mounts ran amok. Chassis of wood and bronze split apart, tumbling end over end to crush friend and foe without prejudice. Peltasts ranged along the borders of the fray, using javelins, arrows, and sling bullets where they could, to dubious effect.

Phanes perched his blood-blasted helmet on his forehead, inhaling great lungfuls of dusty air as he surveyed the battlefield. He could read it like a scroll, and its didactic text told a tale of defeat. Pharaoh’s infantry chipped away at his right flank; his center bore the inverse bulge of an imminent break. Already, his Greeks were falling back, giving ground as the chariots broke over their ranks in endless waves, eroding their numbers with each successive crash. Once their center broke, once the formation split in two, the battle would be over. Phanes tasted gall; the bitter sting of ambitions lost. He cursed himself for falling for the Pharaoh’s ruse, his scouts for not properly assaying the Egyptians, his captains for not stoking the fire in his men’s bellies. Most of all, though, he cursed the oracle at Delphi for promulgating lies. By his own hand? Bah! With each passing moment, his reign as king of Egypt became more and more a thing of smoke and fog. A fever dream.

Phanes reseated his helmet and waded back into the thickest of the fighting, where men, horses, and chariots tangled in a morass of thrashing limbs and murderous bronze. Egyptians fought on foot, hurling themselves against a wall of Greek armor. Here, with their commander at their side, the phalanx held firm, their shields locked and their spears ripping through man and beast with equal ease.

A weight struck Phanes’ shield; from instinct he braced his legs and thrust back, sending an Egyptian sprawling. As the soldier struggled to his feet, Phanes lashed out, cleaving the man’s head to the teeth. Another Egyptian charged, spear leveled at Phanes’ belly. The Greek commander sidestepped and drove the edge of his shield into the hollow of the man’s throat, all but decapitated him.

Beyond the sea of helmets and faces, Phanes spotted Pharaoh’s banners. He could see the blue war crown, the axe that rose and fell amid a scarlet rain. Phanes longed to get closer, within sword’s reach, but a cordon of Calasirian guardsmen made that impossible. His line could not hold, not for much longer. The cost of Greek lives in stopping the chariots had been too high; too many men died repulsing their infantry charges. With each successive wave, his lines crumbled like a sand bank. It was time to think of cutting free.

“Fall back!” Phanes ordered those men nearest him. “Fall back to the quay!” He could yet save himself, and perhaps a handful of his men.

Corpses littered the Square of Deshur. The Egyptians in Barca’s wake drew a collective breath as they rounded the northwestern corner of the temple of Ptah, awed by the carnage that cut a broad arc from the Saqqaran Road to the Western Gate. Most had never seen a battle up close, never smelled the stench of death or heard the plaintive cries of a man dying from a sword-cut to the belly. This was uncomfortably new to them; to a man of Barca’s experience, it was commonplace, almost banal. He felt nothing as his eyes scanned the field, fixing on an empty chariot.

Skittish, the horses danced and gamboled, their eyes rolling in fear. Barca leapt onto the platform of the chariot, ignoring the blood left behind by its previous occupant. True to his word, he did not wait for the Egyptians. The Phoenician seized the reins. Thothmes and Hekaib had barely scrambled on, grasping the side rails, before the horses found their rhythm and shot forward. The Egyptians stared at each other as Barca, his face a mask of grim determination, snapped the reins, lashing more speed from the team.

He angled them toward the thickest of the fighting, to where Pharaoh’s battle-standard floated above the wrack.

As they drew closer, the sound of armored men in close contact, fighting for their lives, was nothing less than chilling. Even to Barca, who had heard the sound for most of his adult life, the crash of armies sent a thrill down his spine. It was the sound of a vast engine of destruction, its grinding blades lubricated with slick, hot gore.

It was music to the Beast.

The Phoenician gritted his teeth. His chariot crossed the intervening ground. A forest of clashing spears rose before them, swaying like saplings in a squall. The wounded crawled among the dead, some begging for succor, others for death. Barca hauled on the reins, his muscles knotting as he slewed the chariot sideways. The wheels skipped and chattered on the pavement.

Ahead, Greek and Egyptian were locked in death’s embrace. Those not dancing with the reaper surged forward in search of a partner. Peltasts targeted the chariot. Javelins flew. One thudded into the wood of the chassis, near Thothmes. Another found a different mark.

The inside horse collapsed, the javelin cleaving its heart. Unbalanced, the other fell, flipping the chariot on its side and spilling its passengers. Barca, his body a compact ball of muscle and sinew, rolled to his feet with the grace of a gymnast. His companions fared worse. Both Egyptians struck the ground hard, leaving patches of skin across the abrasive stones. Thothmes regained his senses first. He clambered to his feet, casting about for his sword.

A peltast broke ranks and charged Hekaib. The Egyptian presented a tempting target: a man on his hands and knees, fighting for breath. An easy kill. He took two steps forward, his arm cocked back over his ear.

Barca intercepted him. His shield knocked the javelin aside as he rammed his sword through the soldier’s body. Behind him, Thothmes rushed over and helped Hekaib to his feet.

“Merciful gods of the desert!” a voice roared to Barca’s left. “You know the value of a good entrance!” Tjemu hobbled up, his weight supported by a broken spear. The Libyan bled from countless small wounds, though Barca judged most of the gore spattering him to be Greek.

“And you know you’re supposed to leave me someone to kill, Libyan,” Barca said, clapping the smaller man on the back. Tjemu grinned ruthlessly.

“These Egyptians got their hackles up.” He glanced around, seeking a familiar face among Barca’s men. “Where’s that old maiden, Ithobaal?”

Barca’s jaw grew tight. He shook his head. Tjemu’s shoulders slumped. “Did he die well?”

“He died as a Medjay should,” Barca replied. “But he died in vain unless we stop Phanes.”

“Then why are we standing here yammering like old women while that bastard makes good his escape?”

Ujahorresnet and the other priests stood together in the thick shadow of the hypostyle hall. They were unguarded, but with battles raging inside and out, where could they run? No, best to stay put and pray.

Ujahorresnet prayed for a different outcome.

The First Servant of Neith knew his prayers had gone unanswered when he saw a blood-splashed apparition crossing the columned hall. Phanes ripped his helmet off and threw it aside. Sweat and blood matted his dark hair. His lips curled in barely contained rage.

“You have failed,” Ujahorresnet said.

“Not failure!” Phanes snarled. “Merely a setback.” Men withdrew around them, sprinting to the quay to make the
Khepri
ready for departure. A rear guard of hoplites fought a delaying action against the Egyptians. The sound of fighting echoed through the hall.

“You are tenacious, Greek. I’ll give you that. Have you not the wisdom and the humility to know when you have been bested?”

“Bested? Not by any length, priest. All that has changed is my focus. If I cannot give Egypt to Cambyses, then I will engineer its destruction. Your confederates have become a liability.” Phanes pointed to the cowering knot of priests. “Kill them.”

Ujahorresnet interjected himself between his countrymen and the Greeks. “Let them go,” he said. “Don’t force me to sacrifice myself to save their lives.”

Phanes and the old priest stood toe to toe. They stared at one another without flinching. Neither man gave back an inch. The tableau could have held for an eternity, but Phanes’ time was limited. “I would have liked to have been your friend, Ujahorresnet,” the Greek said. “When I return, perhaps we can meet under different circumstances and share a glass. I give you your life, and theirs, though I will doubtless live to regret it.” Phanes motioned his men away, then stopped. A slow smile spread across his features. “This place, it’s full of oils and unguents?”

Ujahorresnet nodded.

“Good.” He turned back to face his soldiers. “Burn it!”

Smoke guttered from within the hypostyle hall. Flames gnawed at the stones, searing away ancient layers of paint and plaster. A thick black haze drifted across the battlefield. Through it Barca stalked like Death personified. Egyptians formed at his back, creating a fighting wedge with the indomitable Phoenician at its tip. The remnants of the hoplites, cut off by the flames, locked shields and braced for the final thrust, their palisade of spears all that remained between Barca and his prey.

“Phanes!”

With that ear-splitting roar, Barca loosed the Beast from the prison of his soul. He moved through the Greeks like a farmer threshing grain, reaping a bloody harvest among them. Spears thrusting at him he turned aside, swords whistling toward him he deflected, and men seeking to stand against him he struck down with impunity.

In his wake Hekaib and Thothmes fought to emulate him. The Egyptians were madmen, but to the Greeks they were the lesser of the two evils. Men who stood no chance against Barca threw themselves against his comrades with zealous fervor.

Their ends came quickly.

Hekaib fell first. He could not maintain the brutal pace Barca had set. His lungs burned; his arms and legs felt like leaden weights. Each step, each thrust, became agony. His mind wandered back over the years, seeing again his wife and children, the laughing face of Ibebi, dour Menkaura.
Homage to thee, Osiris
.

Hekaib stumbled, his shield falling. A shadow loomed out of the smoke; a hoplite surged in and drove his eight-footer into the little man’s belly. The Egyptian screamed once, then fell silent as a sword hacked through his neck.