Scott Oden - Men of Bronze

It was Jauharah, asleep. She lay beneath a thin linen coverlet, her chest rising and falling with every measured breath. One arm lay across her stomach; the other pillowed her head. Barca slipped out of his armor, leaving it by the door. His sword he placed on the table, the hilt in easy reach. He knelt by the side of the bed. A finger of golden light played across Jauharah's features. Her face seemed so serene; her moist lips parted slightly. Barca leaned down and kissed her.

Jauharah opened her eyes and smiled. "You're late," she whispered.

"I came as quickly as I could," he replied, cupping her breast. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Her body stretched and twisted beneath the thin coverlet.

"Does that mean you'll roll over now and go to sleep?"

Barca grinned and lifted the coverlet away from her body. He ducked his head, his lips and tongue finding her hardening nipple. Jauharah's soft laughter turned to moans of pleasure as she drew him into bed.

Afternoon faded to evening. Stars flared overhead, barely visible through the gathering clouds. Night sounds trickled past the crude door: insects, the mournful howl of a jackal, the rustle of sand on stone.

Sweat cooled on their bodies. Jauharah lay on her stomach, her arms pillowing her head. Barca stretched his body alongside hers. His fingers traced meaningless designs on the moist flesh of her upper thighs, over her buttocks, up her spine. He could feel the places where her soft skin gave way to ridges of scar tissue — reminders of her more brutal masters.

"How did you find this place?" Barca asked.

"Luck, I think," Jauharah said, her voice a low purr. "I overheard an old woman from Pelusium talking about it. She was a priestess here when it was a temple to Hathor."

Barca chuckled. "Hathor? The cow goddess?"

Jauharah shifted, snuggling closer to him. "She's more than a cow goddess. She's the patron of women, the goddess of love and joy, of song and dance. She has a darker side, too. When enraged, she can be as vicious as the lion-goddess Sekhmet."

"The secret heart of women. We could use the blessings of Sekhmet in the coming. ." Barca's voice died away.

"What's wrong?"

Barca could feel her eyes on him; his hand reached out and stroked her cheek. "A day and a night without the pall of violence hanging over us," he said. "Isn't that what you wanted? Tonight, I'm not a warrior or a general. I'm just a man." Barca felt a tear roll down from the corner of her eye.

"I'm scared, Hasdrabal," Jauharah whispered, laying her head on his chest.

"I know. I am too."

"You are?"

"Yes. Is that so hard to believe?"

Not to me. You're not the same man you once were. The anger …

Barca kissed her forehead. "The anger is gone. That's part of what scares me. Once, I used rage as a weapon. Now, without it, I feel naked and defenseless. All I have is hope, and hope is useless in battle." Barca cradled her close, feeling the warmth of her body. "For the first time in my life," he whispered, "I don't want to die."

Dawn broke gray and wet over Pelusium. A chill north wind drove thick clouds inland from the sea. Fat droplets of rain spattered the ground from the coast to the desert's edge. Trumpets blared in the Egyptian camp, and men who had slept uneasily stirred and went about their morning ritual.

Under a makeshift awning, Callisthenes extinguished his lantern and rubbed his eyes with ink-smudged fingers. He had slept fitfully, plagued by dreams of his aging father. In the cold hours before daybreak, he had risen and went in search of a scribal palette and papyrus.

… Dawn is not far off With the rising of the sun, the army will shake itself and come to life, a beast woken from slumber. Across the field, amid the Persians, Ihave no doubt that there is a man like me, a man roused early by the need to send one last greeting to his family

I ask a favor, Father. Do not weep forme, for this is the path I have chosen for myself, regardless of whether it leads to glory or ruin. Remember the talks we used to have, in the Hellenium at Naucratis? The talks of duty and honor? The memory of those has sustained me through many a dark night. How I use to scoff at you for deriding glory! Now, though, I understand.

Glory like Justice, is blind. In the past year I ha ve seen scoundrels rise to great office while those of far more noble bearing have expired. You said once that Glory has no master. It's true, I've found. But beyond that, Glory seems to bestow herself like a whore on those least worthy

The sun's rising, Father. Already I hear the polemarchs stirring. Soon the fight will be joined, and I will be in the thick of it. I pray I will be the one who delivers this letter to you. If I'm not, if I fall, then understand that freedom is ofttimes purchased with blood. If my blood is the coin of your freedom, then so be it. The gods have given no man the right to live forever.

He read the letter one last time. Satisfied, Callisthenes rolled it up, placed it in a leather pouch along with his scarab amulet, and looked to his borrowed panoply.

From the doorway of Hathor's forgotten chapel, Barca stared out at the scudding veil of clouds. The rain was a welcome ally. It would neutralize the most feared weapon in the Persian arsenal, the bow. Their archers would be useless. Barca pulled his gaze away and rubbed his eyes. Already he felt tired, drained.

Behind him, he heard Jauharah moving about. She had finished dressing and was gathering up the remnants of their small meal: bread, fruit, a finely strained beer. The leftovers went into a wicker basket. Barca turned from the door and went to where his armor lay. The bronze gleamed, buffed to a mirror-bright sheen, the leather supple, oiled. She must have spent hours on it. Barca picked up his linen corselet and held it between his fists for a long moment before slipping it on.

"Will they fight?" Jauharah said. There was a tension to her voice despite her neutral tone. "In the rain, I mean?"

Barca nodded. "One way or another. They'll be reluctant at first, unwilling to give up their superiority with the bow. Without archers or cavalry, they will be forced to meet us hand-to-hand. That might be too close a fight for Cambyses' liking."

And for mine. Unsaid, the words hung in the air between them. Jauharah hugged herself, shivering. Barca glanced up and saw tears rimming her eyes.

"I had a dream last night," she said. "We were walking down a long slope beside a rushing river. The place was lush, groves of olive and pomegranate trees and long rows of wheat. Cattle grazed in the distance, and I could hear the voices of children …" her voice faltered. She looked away, remembering. Her arms tightened around her chest. "But, as we walked, men rushed along the ridges. Men in armor bearing long spears. They waved and shouted at you, and your eyes flickered between them and me. You were in torment, agonizing at having to choose. The space between us grew until my hand slipped out of yours. You drifted away, toward the ridge, toward the armed men, toward the promise of battle. After that, after you had gone, the land withered. I passed skeletal trees and fields razed as if by fire. I saw rotting mounds of flesh that were once cattle. Even the rushing river grew dry and parched. Worst of all, though, was the silence. I could not hear the children anymore."

Barca's heart wrenched in his breast. He could say nothing, his throat tight, as he blinked back tears of his own. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. Jauharah buried her face in his shoulder, her body wracked with sobs.

"I thought I could be strong, thought I could let you go, but I can't! Let's leave this place while there's still time!" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please! If you go out there, I'm afraid you'll never come back! "