Men of Bronze (48 page)

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.