Men of Bronze (49 page)

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 … I t-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 of honor. 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.

“Hold him!” Jauharah screamed, throwing her weight across the wounded soldier’s torso. “Someone hold him!” From the chaos a priest rushed forward, his chest and kilt slimed with blood, and immobilized the thrashing Egyptian. “He was unconscious,” Jauharah said. “Didn’t think he would move.” She tossed the cooling flatiron aside and snatched another from the fire pot. Jauharah shifted, planting the cherry-red iron against the stump of the soldier’s forearm. Meat sizzled. The soldier stiffened, his eyes rolling back in their sockets, and a moment later his contortions ceased. Jauharah smelled the heartbreaking stench of bowel.

“Damn it,” she muttered, dropping the iron back into the smoldering coals. The priest glanced from Jauharah to the dead soldier, not comprehending. Like most in the House of Life he was a child of the long and peaceful reign of Khnemibre Ahmose. Until this day the worst he’d seen were commonplace accidents: the gashed hands of an impatient stone cutter; the crushed foot of an inattentive herdsman; perhaps a fisherman’s mangled legs in the wake of a crocodile attack. This aftermath of the collision between flesh and iron was too much for him to bear. Jauharah could see it in his eyes, a cloud of madness drifting close to the surface. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Go help where you can. Let Lord Osiris have this one.” Blinking, the priest stood and moved away. He heard another plea for help, turned, and vanished in the chaos. Jauharah closed her eyes and leaned against the dead soldier.

Around her, men flailed and screamed as spearheads were extracted, or moaned pitifully as bones were set, lacerations stitched. Priests, scribes, cooks, grooms, everyone not germane to the fighting had been pressed into service as an aide or orderly. Hollow-eyed boys spread buckets of sand underfoot to absorb the blood, bowel, and vomit that poured from the shattered wrecks of Pharaoh’s soldiery. The stench was ungodly. Chest and belly wounds, crushed skulls, punctures, long gaping slashes. Most of the wounded looked as if Persian horses had dragged them naked across a field of bronze spikes. Jauharah knew in her marrow few of them would live. She caught sight of Ladice. The Lady of Cyrene, as blood-grimed and foul as the rest of them, still possessed a sense of dignity powerful enough to calm nerves and soothe fears. But, as she passed close, Jauharah could see something was not right. There was a tightness about Ladice’s eyes, a thinness to her lips. Jauharah reached out and plucked at her sleeve.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, frowning. Ladice glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. Her relationship with Barca made them equals in this sorority of death.

“Pharaoh has withdrawn from the field,” Ladice said, her voice cracking. “That spineless son of a whore! He promised his father! He promised …” She caught herself before she could say more. Ladice closed her eyes; her trembling fingers busied themselves with smoothing the neckline of her simple shift.

Jauharah hugged herself, unable to stop the thrill of fear that raced down her spine. She thought of Hasdrabal. “What will happen?”

“Panic and flight. Cambyses will come,” Ladice said. “Surely he will spare the wounded?” She stared at the carnage around her, overcome at last by the sheer volume of it. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Or would it be more merciful to let them die?”

“We must try to save them,” Jauharah said.

Ladice nodded, again in control of herself. “Yes. We must. Do what you can, Jauharah. I’m going to throw myself on Cambyses’ mercies.” She grabbed Jauharah by the shoulders, hugging her. “Promise me you will flee should this take a turn for the worse!”

“I promise.”

Ladice gave a brief smile, a gesture meant to bolster her own flagging confidence. They hugged one last time. “Amon bless you, lady,” Jauharah said as she watched her go. “Amon bless you and keep you.”