Scott Oden - Men of Bronze

"For every Greek whose wickedness is trumpeted to the heavens, there are a dozen more that live lives of noble obscurity. It would be foolish, I think, to judge a whole people by the actions of a few vile souls. Foolish as well as misguiding."

"How do you forgive so easily?"

"I don't, lady. I only place the blame where it belongs. I don't forgive the men who shattered my life, and neither do I hold you accountable for their actions because you happen to be Greek."

Ladice sighed. "Your soul is older and wiser than mine, Jauharah. I want you here tomorrow, in the surgeon's tent. I think your skills would be better utilized removing arrows instead of inventorying them." Jauharah started to reply, but Ladice put a hand on her arm and leaned close. "When men decide to make war, it is the women who are left to pick up the pieces."

"I understand," Jauharah said. Ladice nodded and rushed off to attend to her duties. Jauharah watched her go. The Lady of Cyrene gave voice to something she had felt during the battle at Memphis and, later, while stitching the wounded in Raphia. In the aftermath of fighting, a woman's touch was invaluable.

By their very nature women were nurturers. In times of peace it meant they were hearth-warmers, child-rearers, possessed of a practical magic men found inscrutable. In times of war, that selfsame magic could be used to soothe the sick and heal the wounded; it flowed through a woman's fingertips to strengthen hearts and souls; it carried in their voices, in the soft-spoken reassurances that everything would be better. Ladice was right. Men would fight and men would die, but it was the women who would make their riven bodies whole again.

Lost in thought, Jauharah wandered out through a flap in the back of the pavilion. A copse of sycamores and tamarisks grew at the rear of the House of Life, casting welcome shade over the sun-browned grass. A shallow ditch scarred the ground, its sides heaped with freshly turned earth. The light breeze carried the smell of wild mint. It was hard to believe that, in a matter of hours, a river of blood would flow through that ditch while mounds of severed limbs would cover the grass, a grim monument to the lords of violence.

A sob brought Jauharah up short. She glanced around. There, hidden in the shadow of an ancient sycamore, a figure sat alone. She moved closer.

It was Callisthenes.

He sat with his legs drawn up before him, his arms on his knees, oblivious to the world around him. He stared at his hands. They were shaking. "I can't do it," the Greek said, his voice hoarse. "I can't do it."

Jauharah edged closer. Callisthenes glanced up. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and the look in them was one of unreasoning terror.

"I can't do it," he repeated.

"What?" Jauharah frowned. "What can't you do?"

"I can't kill again. It's not in me, I think," Callisthenes said. He clenched his hands to stop the tremors. "As a child, I dreamed of fighting at the left hand of Ajax, beneath the walls of Ilium. Odysseus was my mentor; Achilles, my god. Patroclus. Paris. Agamemnon. These were the names of my personal pantheon. I worshiped glory and battle." Callisthenes grunted, rubbing his hands together. "Look at me now. Every time battle is offered, my knees go weak and my blood turns to ice … a man in name only."

Jauharah sat beside him. "You want to know a secret, Callisthenes? Something only women understand? A man is not measured by the lives he has taken, rather by the lives he has preserved. Your actions at Memphis, Gaza, and Raphia speak louder than any words. You are, barring none, one of the bravest men I have ever known — and it's precisely because of your concern for life. You have to do what you think is right, Callisthenes, not what others believe is right for you. If fighting is not for you, then you can still help us here, in the House of Life."

"With the women! " the Greek said bitterly.

"There are men here, too. Men equally as brave as the soldiers in the field," Jauharah said. "Some men are put on this earth to preserve life; others to take it. You are one of the rare few whose sense of compassion overrides your desire to kill. Yours is a rare heart, Callisthenes. Trust it. It will not lead you astray."

Callisthenes looked at her, a newfound respect in his eyes. "It's little wonder Barca has changed. For a time I dismissed you as nothing more than his way of atoning for the past. I can see I was mistaken." He grasped her hand. Jauharah could feel him shaking. He looked down, cleared his throat. "My people do not hold women in high regard, save as a way to propagate the future. We do not accord them the independence they deserve. I swear to you, Jauharah, should I live through this, I will devote my remaining days to righting this wrong."

Jauharah smiled. "I know you will, Callisthenes. I know you will. For now, though, let's deal with today. Would you like to aid us here?"

Callisthenes sat for a long time, perfectly still, his eyes closed as he searched the deepest recesses of his heart. Finally, he stood. He helped Jauharah to her feet. "Lady," the Greek said. "I am honored by your invitation, but my heart tells me my place is with the men of Naucratis."

Barca caught Nebmaatra coming out of his tent, a roll of papyrus tucked under one arm. The Egyptian's face creased in a mirthless smile. "News travels swiftly," he said. "I've sent word to each regimental commander. I want campaign discipline maintained. If the men go off to empty their bowels, they had best keep their weapons handy."

Barca nodded. "It would be wise to send patrols around the marshes, just in case they think to flank us from that direction."

"We'll see to that after we brief Pharaoh. Come." The Phoenician fell in beside Nebmaatra.

Barca had not seen Psammetichus since the latter's arrival a few days past. As Tjemu would say, Pharaoh knew the value of a good entrance; he made his with all the pomp and glitter of a conquering king. Preceded by the gods of Egypt and a swarm of shaven-headed priests, Psammetichus reviewed the troops from the back of his chariot. In his golden-scaled corselet and blue war crown, the young monarch looked every inch his father's son. But looks could deceive.

"Have you talked with Pharaoh?"

"Once," Nebmaatra replied. "When he informed me of his desire to command the center, behind his Calasirians and the regiment of Amon."

"You explained to him that he must stand firm, that Cambyses will doubtless hurl the Immortals against the center in an effort to split the line?"

Nebmaatra nodded. "He assured me he would hold the line together."

"You trust him?" Barca knew the young Pharaoh had never commanded as much as a raiding party, much less the core of a professional army. The Phoenician had seen his share of recruits freeze when the sounds and smells hit them for the first time. He expected no less from Psammetichus.

Nebmaatra glanced sidelong at the Phoenician. "He is Pharaoh. What choice do I have? I must admit, though, it warmed my heart to see him go against Ujahorresnet's advice."

Barca's head snapped around, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Mother of whores!" He had seen the old man in the entourage and assumed he was there in his capacity as lady Neith's high priest. "He's Pharaoh's new advisor?"

Nebmaatra nodded. "Not just advisor. Pharaoh named him Overseer of the High Sea Fleet, Fan-bearer on the King's Right Hand, a whole host of titles. Apparently, they have quite a rapport. I suggested Pharaoh award you the Gold of Valor for your deeds at Gaza, but Ujahorresnet convinced him not to. He said it would not look proper to bestow Egypt's highest military honor for a mere skirmish."

"I should have killed that meddlesome bastard in Memphis!" Barca said, his teeth grinding in anger. "Do not trust him, Nebmaatra! If an order springs from his lips, question it, if not openly then in your own mind. He does not have Egypt's best interests at heart."