Men of Bronze (41 page)

“Come, let me bathe you,” she said. Her tone left no room for argument.

Barca stood, stripped off his armor and kilt, and drove his sheathed sword point-first into the sand. With a groan, he sank into the pool. Jauharah floated up behind him and laved water onto his shoulders and back. He closed his eyes, going limp in her care. Once his body was clean, Jauharah wet his hair and washed it with aromatic oil, massaging his scalp with gentle fingers. After she rinsed his hair, Jauharah urged him to lay back, his head resting on her breasts, as she deftly trimmed the wild edges of his beard. She finished, intertwining her body with his in the sun-warmed water.

“It’s been years since a woman …” Barca trailed off. Jauharah said nothing, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair off his forehead. His brow furrowed. “This morning, as we ambushed the Persians, I had no rage, no fury. I felt,” Barca chose his words carefully, “sorrow. For their loss, for what I had to do to them to insure your safety, and mine. What you do to me … what I feel is dangerous for a man in my position.”

“What do you feel?”

Barca remained silent for a long while. Jauharah could tell he was engaged in something he rarely did. He was searching deep inside himself. Finally, he spoke. “There is a small voice inside my head that curses me for a fool, that chides me for trading my edge in battle for a few hours of pleasure. Before that night in Gaza, I lived on hatred, on rage, on a dark deed I thought unforgivable. Now …” Barca lapsed into silence, his brows knotted, his eyes turned inward.

“Do you regret that night in Gaza?” Jauharah said, the bitterness in her voice surprising even her. “I do not wish to be a burden to you, physically or mentally.”

Barca silenced her with a kiss. “It is not you or our time together that I regret. It is my life
before
Gaza. Understand, I lived as a dead man. I breathed, and my heart beat and blood pumped. But I was only passing time until violence separated my body from my
ka
. I’ve wasted the last twenty years on regret. I don’t plan to waste what time I have left.”

Barca kissed her again with a tender passion; a long kiss accompanied by stroking fingers and caresses. Jauharah moaned and held him tight. It was not a furious ardor that drove their lovemaking, but a gentle, insistent ache inflamed by touch and the nearness of their bodies. For a time, both succeeded in forgetting the world around them.

After a while the Phoenician stirred. “We’d better be getting back,” he said, glancing at the sun. It had passed its zenith, morning giving way to afternoon.

“If only all of this could pass us by,” she sighed. “Just one day and night together without the pall of violence hanging over us is all I ask.”

“Perhaps that day will come,” Barca said. “But not today. Not now.” He rose from the water and helped her out. Droplets of moisture shimmered against her brown skin as she toweled off and slipped into her shift. She ran a comb through her hair. The sun would do the rest.

Meanwhile, Barca went about rearming. Jauharah watched in fascination as a metamorphosis occurred; a transformation. Kilt, sandals, greaves, corselet, each element of armor donned in its turn, as a mason sets individual stones in a wall. Finally, the carapace of bronze, so like the shell of a crab, that protected more than the flesh within — it camouflaged the vulnerability of the man who wore it. Barca glanced up, and Jauharah saw his transformation as more than physical. His eyes reflected the cold, unyielding strength of the bronze. In its embrace he would have no doubts, no concerns. His actions would be beneficial to his allies; swift and deadly to his foes. In that, Jauharah found a measure of comfort.

“Jauharah,” Barca repeated. “Are you ready?”

She blinked, smiling. She had been so lost in thought that she did not realize he was speaking. “Yes.” He nodded, and they set off together.

Gulls wheeled overhead, their mournful cries lost amid the crash and hiss of breakers. In the distance, Senmut and his sailors knocked the canting beams aside, floating the
Atum
in the surf. Their hurrahs were faint.

“Who is that?” Jauharah said, pointing at a figure sprinting toward them.

“Huy,” Barca murmured.

The young soldier, his corselet dulled even in the brilliant afternoon sun, crunched through the damp sand, waves tugging at his ankles. He ran up the strand as if the Children of Anubis nipped at his heels. He slowed as he approached Barca. Huy was a tall lad, still in his teens, with a shock of black hair that defied any attempt to control. A gash across his jaw had scabbed over; one hand was bandaged, several fingers missing.

“What is it Huy?” Barca said.

The lad was out of breath. He gasped, clutching at his sore ribs. “It … It’s … the Persians, lord!”

The Persian herald sat his horse like a man born there. Despite the heat, he wore trousers of wine-colored cloth tucked into calf-length boots. Over a sleeved tunic, the herald’s armor gleamed in the sun, a jacket of triangular bronze scales, resembling the skin of a fish. A small shield of leather and wood hung from his saddle-bow, and — save for the long lance in his right hand — he appeared unarmed. Beneath the bronze lance head a white scarf fluttered in the breeze.

“Huy found you. Good,” Callisthenes said as Barca and Jauharah walked up. “I think they wish to surrender. He keeps saying the same thing over and over.”

“I bear a message for your commander,” the herald repeated, his voice deep and rolling. He spoke Egyptian with a heavy accent.

Barca pushed through the crowd of Egyptians. “I am here.”

“My master would speak with you, under the flag of truce. He awaits you on yonder road.” With that, the horseman wheeled and rode off.

“Surrender,” Barca grunted, shaking his head at Callisthenes.

“A man can dream, can he not?” the Greek said. “Anyway, what do you intend to do?”

“We’re done here,” Barca said, looking at the remnants of his men. “It’s time to cut our losses and get out while we can. The Persians are toying with us.”

“What do you suggest?” Callisthenes said.

“The Atum,” Barca replied. “We can escape so long as the Phoenician triremes haven’t marshaled and put to sea. Still, any withdrawal has to have cover. I will buy you and Jauharah enough time to get the wounded on board.”

“Me?” Callisthenes said. “I’m no general, Barca. I …”

“This is not a task for a general, damn you! It’s a task for a merchant! Use the skills you have at organization and make it so! Now, move!” He raised his voice so the Egyptians could hear. “We must make ready to be away within the hour. Take only those supplies we will need to make it to Pelusium; burn the rest.” He thrust a hand at Callisthenes. “The Greek will command in my stead. Should I not return by sunset, set sail and make for Pelusium. Report all you have seen and done to whoever commands there. Understood?”

Muffled assent as the men scattered to make their preparations. Callisthenes glared at him, then turned and hustled down to the beach to warn Senmut. Jauharah lingered.

“Be careful,” she whispered. Barca winked at her, nodding.

“I’ll be the picture of care,” he said. She touched his hand, then turned and followed Callisthenes. Barca watched her go. His face became expressionless, hard. For the time being, he put her out of his mind. The Phoenician turned and struck off in the direction the herald had indicated.

The afternoon heat was oppressive. Once beyond the ridge line, the air grew still; not even the gulls ventured inland. Barca stewed in his armor, basting in his own sweat. Cautiously, he followed the trail of the horseman. By instinct he marked the places where archers could hide; once, he imagined he saw the flash of sunlight on metal. He knew how the Persians in the gorge had felt this morning. There were men behind the rocks, he was sure of it. Barca approached the track leading down to the road as if an ambush lay behind the next overhang.

In the valley below, straddling the Way of Horus, the Persians had erected a pavilion. It was nothing fancy, Barca noticed, a campaign tent fly-rigged, its sides open in an effort to catch some hint of a breeze. The Phoenician rode an avalanche of loose gravel to the valley floor. The herald waited nearby, off his horse now, stroking the beast’s withers.

“My master awaits you within,” he said. “Do you speak Aramaic?”

“Yes.”

Barca walked to the edge of the pavilion. A man sat inside on a jumble of plush rugs, a tray with dates and wine at his elbow. The fellow was young, far younger than Barca imagined a Persian commander should be, and dark eyed, with features sharpened on the whetstone of curiosity. He wore a simple soldier’s corselet of sweat-stained linen and scarlet trousers, embroidered with gold thread, tucked into leather boots. A tangled skein of black hair hung nearly to his shoulders.

“Your fame precedes you, Hasdrabal Barca,” he said. “I am Darius, son of Hystapes,
arshtibara
of King Cambyses and commander of the vanguard. Please, sit and join me for some refreshment.”

Barca sat cross-legged opposite of Darius, his sword across his knees. He helped himself to a handful of dates and a goblet of wine. “I know you haven’t called me here just to exchange pleasantries. What do you want?”

Darius ran his fingers through his well-groomed beard, an unconscious gesture. “Phanes did not lie when he called you blunt, Phoenician. You are right, this is more than a chance to share a cup and a jest. You and those who follow you are men of honor and courage. I hate to see such as yourselves wasted in this fool’s errand. Please, I beg of you, stand down and let us pass.”

“I am surprised a man who values honor as you do would consort with the likes of Phanes,” Barca said.

Darius grimaced. “It was not by choice, I assure you. My king finds him to be a useful asset. Personally, I find the Greek repellent.”

“At least in that we agree. If I concede the road to you, Darius, what will you give to me in return?”

“Your life, and the lives of those who follow you,” the Persian said.

Barca laughed, draining his goblet and pouring himself another. “You say that like a man who believes he has control over my fate. Do not make the same mistake so many have before you.”

Darius frowned. “What do you want, then?”

Barca did not get the sense that Darius played a game with him. The young man was passionate in his plea, his concern genuine. “I have a ship in Raphia. Give me one day to get my people on board.”

“And where will you go? Pelusium?”

“Does it matter? The road will be open to you.”

Darius sighed. “Unfortunately, it does matter. I would be remiss in my obligations to my king if I allowed you to rejoin the fight at Pelusium. You are too valuable …”

“You realize,” Barca cut him off, his voice dangerous, “I could kill you where you sit?”

Darius met his stare openly, unflinching. “I believe you could,” he said. “But my archers would cut you down like a stag in flight before you took two steps. Afterward, my successor would fall upon Raphia like the wrath of God, and if any of your men lived to see Egypt again, it would be as a slave chained to the oar of a Persian galley.”

“We’ve reached an impasse, then,” Barca said. “You want the road, which I’m willing to concede, but you’re unwilling to suffer my price for it. If you Persians are so sure of your superiority, what difference will it make if I fall at Raphia or at Pelusium?”

“Your death is not the bone of contention, it’s your life,” Darius said. “You have the uncanny ability to inspire men to their utmost; to make them desire to emulate you. You will fight like a demon, here or at Pelusium, and those men with you will be inspired to the same level of savagery. Can you understand my position? I would rather face a few hundred men emboldened by you than a few thousand.

“But, I am not without a sense of fair play,” Darius continued. “We outnumber you so many times over that it fades into the realm of the absurd. That said, I am willing to give you a fighting chance. A head start, if you will.”

“I’m listening,” Barca said, tentatively.

“I give you one hour,” Darius said.

“One hour?”

“Yes. From the time you leave my camp you have one hour to get as many of your men aboard as you can. After one hour, my horsemen attack. Is this acceptable?”

Barca snarled. “This is your sense of fair play? It took nearly an hour to arrive at this spot!”

“We’re not haggling in the markets of Tyre, Phoenician. This is a battlefield, and mine is the upper hand. How many men will you rescue if I order an immediate attack? My guess, not many. At least this way you have some kind of chance.”

The Phoenician’s brow furrowed, calculating. “How do I know you’ll remain true to your word?”

“I swear it on my honor,” Darius replied.