Scott Oden - Men of Bronze

Barca kissed her, stroking her hair as he cradled her head against his chest. He whispered to her: "I'm sorry, Jauharah. You have asked me for so very little. A roof, a warm bed, food. The necessities have been your only desires. And this thing, this one tiny thing, that you ask of me is the one thing I cannot do. This battle began months ago, as a skirmish with Bedouin raiders. Now, it has finally reached its culmination. I, of all people, must see it through to the end. Honor …"

"Honor, Hasdrabal?" she said, pushing away from him. She wiped her eyes. "Honor means nothing if you're dead."

"It's more than that," he said softly. "This has become a thing of far greater importance; greater than any here realize. It's grown beyond individual soldiers or generals or kings. It's become a question of survival. We will be fighting to preserve the Egyptian way of life; the Persians will be fighting to destroy it. This," he gestured around them, "could be the last dawn of Egypt as we know it."

Jauharah's shoulders slumped as her anger drained away. "You're right. There's more at stake here than my own selfish needs. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Barca caught her hand and pulled her toward him. "If anyone should apologize, it should be me. I'm sorry for dragging you into the middle of all this."

"You didn't drag me, Hasdrabal. I'm here because I could not imagine being anywhere else. And, I'll be here when the battle's over."

"Then, when the battle's over," Barca said, "we'll find that long slope beside the quick-flowing river and make the best parts of your dream come true."

Jauharah hugged him tight; Barca buried his face in her hair. Beyond the doorway, the Phoenician could hear the distant sounds of armed men, muffled by the rain. He imagined they were beckoning …

In his tent, Nebmaatra listened to the staccato plop of rain as he tightened the last buckle on his corselet and took up his ostrich-plumed helmet. He had risen early, dismissed his grooms, and prepared himself as he had in the past, when he was a mere soldier. His mind was calm, unburdened by dread or trepidation. The general had spent part of the night going through the contents of a small cedar-wood chest he planned to deposit at the House of Life. Old letters, drawings, legal documents, his father's scarab seal, his mother's faience bracelet. All of this would pass on to his sister, at Thebes. Both his brothers had died young, one of the fever and the other from a fall. He had no wife; no children of his own.

Nebmaatra smiled, recalling the look on his sister's face when he declined to take a wife. "Who will care for you in your old age?" she would say, in the same patient voice she used on her unruly children. Nebmaatra would only smile and pat her cheek. He did not have the heart to tell her that, as a soldier, he would likely never see old age.

Nebmaatra's life revolved around one simple premise: service to the throne. Perhaps he had done a disservice to the gods by not marrying and begetting children, but in his mind this was balanced by his commitment to protect his land and his king. If the gods allowed their favorites to prosper, then he could not have soured too many divine stomachs. He had a modest tomb at Saqqara, a set of grave goods, and professional mourners. What more did a man need?

With a last look, Nebmaatra tucked his helmet under his arm and stepped outside. It was time to attend Pharaoh.

At first glance the camp was a hotbed of activity, almost chaotic. But there was an underlying sense of order to it, a method that spoke well of Nebmaatra's abilities as an organizer. Soldiers rushed to their mustering points. Servants handled water, food, spare weapons and equipment. Priests and scribes bore baskets of correspondence for safe-keeping in the House of Life. Every man knew his place. Nebmaatra's chest swelled with pride.

Through the apparent chaos, he caught sight of Barca and Jauharah. They walked arm in arm, at their own pace. Soldiers, servants, priests, and scribes flowed around them. The pair stopped at the side entrance to the House of Life.

Nebmaatra watched, knowing he witnessed something intensely personal.

There were no drawn out goodbyes, no histrionics. Their hands touched for a brief instant; their eyes locked, a strained smile. Then she was gone, vanished into the depths of the House of Life.

Barca looked at the sky, closing his eyes against the spattering rain.

Nebmaatra approached him. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead," Barca said. "You?"

"As a babe at his mother's breast," Nebmaatra said. Both lied and the other knew it.

"We may have to goad them," Barca said. Nebmaatra nodded. The Phoenician continued, "They know their preferred tactics will be useless, but we cannot let Cambyses retire from the field. He must attack today."

"Strange," the Egyptian said. "I spent three weeks dreading this day, sick with the anticipation of it. This could be my last among the living, and now that it has dawned, I'm eager to see the end of it."

"Then our places have changed, my friend," Barca said. "I am near paralyzed with dread. It's a new sensation for me, and I feel shamed by it."

"Are you becoming mortal, Barca?"

"I've been mortal," Barca said, extending his hand to Nebmaatra. "Now, it seems, I'm becoming human, again."

Nebmaatra nodded and clasped his hand. "Fight well, Hasdrabal son of Gisco."

"I'11 see you when this is over," Barca said, turning. Nebmaatra watched him go, watched him vanish as Jauharah had in the swirl and eddy of humanity.

"I hope so," the Egyptian muttered. "I hope so." His heart suddenly heavy, Nebmaatra turned and walked to Pharaoh's tent.

Pharaoh sat on his golden throne and listened to the rain. He had dismissed his courtiers, his advisers, even Ujahorresnet, in order to compose his thoughts in relative peace. The golden scales of his armor clashed as he shifted; of gold, too, were his arm braces, decorated in raised reliefs depicting the gods of war. Instead of the crook and the flail, the hereditary tokens of rule, his hands caressed the haft of an axe.

It was an elegant weapon. The slightly curving handle terminated in a flared bronze head, and the whole was overlaid with gold. The scene on the blade depicted Pharaoh smiting a captive with the label "Beloved of Neith" beneath. A gift from his father.

Father.

Ahmose had been a lifelong soldier, a man born to the art of war. Psammetichus wondered where such a man's thoughts dwelt in that hour before battle. Did Ahmose second guess his strategy? Did he spend time praying to the gods for luck and success in battle? Or did he just sit quietly and think of the wives he left behind, the children?

He conjured an image from memory. An image of his father as a younger man. He imagined him sitting in this same tent, alone, an axe in his hands. What would Pharaoh do? Where would Pharaoh turn? The answer would not come. Psammetichus could only remember his father as a man, laughing, swapping jests with his generals, drinking wine.

Perhaps that was the answer.

Nebmaatra and Ujahorresnet appeared at the door of the tent. The general carried the blue war crown. They bowed to Pharaoh.

"It's time, 0 Son of Ra," Nebmaatra said.

"Wait." Ujahorresnet held a small pottery figure in his hands, decorated as a Persian with the name of Cambyses inscribed on it. He placed it at Pharaoh's feet. Psammetichus raised an eyebrow. Quickly, Ujahorresnet explained, "In the time of the god-kings, magic was wrought this way. The ancient ones would smash the effigies of their enemies to insure their power over them would not wane."

"I should do no less than the god-kings, eh, my friends?" Pharaoh rose and, after a moment's pause, brought his heel down on the Persian effigy. "I wish it were as easy as this." Pharaoh accepted the crown from Nebmaatra, and together they rushed out to take their positions.